Suffering in Silence, Book 2: Breathe
by NutsandVolts
Summary: *NEWLY EDITED* Before Katniss Everdeen, there was another kind of heroine—one who had no desire to win the Hunger Games in the first place. Meet Wiress MacDanielle, a seemingly ordinary young girl from District 3, who is ripped away from her comfortable life and thrust into a situation in which she has no control. Let the 46th Hunger Games begin.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games trilogy and all characters within it are the sole property of Suzanne Collins. This is for entertainment purposes only.**

**Hello, friends. I'm sure you're wondering why I've gone back to this story when I've claimed on multiple occasions that it was finished. I've wanted for months to go through and edit some things I believe were done a little sloppily. No scenes will be taken out, only revised; also, some scenes will be added in that I believe benefit the story. This is something I've wanted to do for some time, as I've said, and because **_**Breaking Point **_**is on hiatus for the time being, I've decided this is as good a time as any to tackle this project. For all of you who have read **_**Breathe **_**before, I hope you enjoy the edited version even more than you did the original; for all of the newcomers, I hope you enjoy this story!**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

When I was seven years old, I built an alarm clock out of spare parts lying around my house so that my father wouldn't have to wake me for school every morning; it didn't seem fair to him when he already came home so late from working the night shift at Factory 8. My homemade alarm clock doesn't make a normal beeping sound when it goes off, however; I completed my alarm clock that long-ago day when I was seven by recording my mother's lovely singing voice as she cleaned our home that spring. She hummed a lullaby she picked up from a friend of hers, a refugee of District 12; the song was sweet and spoke of spending time with a loved one in a meadow. This is the sound that has woken me every morning for ten years.

My mother died when I was nine years old. My older sister, Raphela, just two years older than I, has become a surrogate mother to me as a result.

Eight years have passed since my mother's death, but every morning when I hear her singing that beautiful song, I still want to cry for her bitter, sudden loss.

Mother's voice, only slightly warped by the mechanics of the alarm clock, fills my ears now as I lie in my bed. No matter how quiet it is, I always wake up upon hearing it. And on normal mornings, I always lie in my bed just a minute longer to hear her finish the song. It makes me feel closer to her.

However, I cannot do so today. Today is Reaping Day—the day tributes for the Hunger Games are chosen. Raphela, my father, and I have to be in town square at promptly nine o'clock; tardiness or absenteeism on Reaping Day is punishable by death, and an especially horrible one in the case of an eligible teen in the household.

Because I am seventeen years old, my name—Wiress MacDanielle—is entered six times. Somewhere, someone has either written or typed my name onto six small slips of paper and placed them in the reaping bowl. I wonder idly if this person spelled my surname correctly. The previous year was my final one in school, and my surname was often misspelled, though I can't necessarily blame anyone; my surname, MacDanielle, is very strange, the very devil to spell when I was a child. Upon introducing myself, many ask how I have such a strange name; I know they never mean my first name because Wiress is a very common name in District 3. I have plenty of relatives—though most are now deceased—named Wiress, and my classmates in school last year had relatives named Wiress. In fact, there has always been at least one class every year for my eleven required years of Capitol-approved education where there has been another girl, no doubt with the same pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes so common to District 3, named Wiress, but never have I met anyone not related to me in some way with the surname MacDanielle.

Even though the reaping always puts everyone in the district in a sour mood, my heart is lifted upon remembering that my sister, Raphela, is now nineteen years old and is no longer eligible for the Hunger Games. She refuses to celebrate, however, until I am also no longer eligible. She often tells me that on my nineteenth birthday, the fifteenth of December, we will have a large party and invite all of our friends—rather, all of _her _friends, as I have none due to my perpetual shyness—and plenty of boys. We'll eat, drink, and be merry; after all, life is still strictly controlled by the Capitol, but the Hunger Games are one horror that we will be spared. Of course, I know that this party will never happen. Assuming that I live to _see _my nineteenth birthday, we will still be poor like everyone else in District 3—rather, like everyone else in the entire country of Panem—and will not be able to afford to hold such an event. Besides, I doubt the Peacekeepers will allow such festivities to take place. I think Raphela knows this as well, but I don't want to put a dapper on her spirits, so I just smile and nod whenever this fictitious party comes up in conversation.

As I stare at the dull, gray ceiling, I hear a knock on my door. I sit up, rub my eyes with my knuckles as a small child would do, and call, "Come in."

Raphela pokes her head into my room with a smile on her face. "Aren't you up yet, Ressie?"

"I'm up," I reply, standing, "and I wish you'd stop calling me that. I'm not a child, you know."

Raphela rolls her eyes. Despite my constant insistence that the nickname is too childish for a young woman of seventeen, Raphela hastens to stop calling me Ressie. I suppose that there's a part of me, deep down, that enjoys the nickname; despite the many people in 3 named Wiress, I don't believe any of them are also called Ressie, and individuality, however disliked by Peacekeepers, is pleasant.

"Well, to me, you'll always be Ressie, Wiress," says Raphela, entering my room. She seems suddenly uncomfortable; this is the first year that only I am eligible for the reaping, and I can tell that it makes her feel just a bit guilty. "Are you nervous?" she asks after a short pause.

"Just a little," I admit. "But as they say, the odds _are _in my favor. There are at least one thousand eligible girls in District Three, and undoubtedly, some have taken out tesserae, which I haven't." I scowl slightly as I say this; last year, Raphela took out tesserae, entering her name in the reaping bowl more times in exchange for more grain and oil, but she and Father have forbidden me to do so even though she is no longer eligible. I feel as if I'm not doing enough to help my family. But Raphela insists that it's too dangerous, and Father seconds this, and arguing with them is pointless. "My name is therefore entered only a measly six times in the reaping bowl holding over one thousand names," I continue. "The chances that I'll be picked are very slim."

Raphela rolls her eyes again. "You know, Ressie, you can be such a nerd sometimes." She sighs. "Anyway, it's already eight o'clock; you'd better get dressed or we'll be late. I'm making breakfast."

I have absolutely no appetite, and I doubt she does either, but there's no point in starving ourselves when food is so short in supply anyway, so I simply nod and Raphela leaves, closing the door behind her.

In correlation with all houses in District 3, mine is very small. It has three bedrooms, however, so I don't have to share one with my older sister. It also has a kitchen with an adjoining dining room, a sitting room, and a bathroom.

I meander to the window and close the curtains in spite of the fact that it's coated in such a thick layer of ash and grime that it's impossible to see out of anyway. After locking my bedroom door, I pull the old sheet off of the large mirror resting against my wall. Using a small rag draped one of the bedposts, I wipe off as much soot as possible to make sure I can see my reflection. I glance around the room again to be sure of my privacy; then, I strip naked.

Even though I'm alone, I still blush when I see myself nude in the mirror, especially when I let my eyes travel from my pink face to my body. Like all females in District 3, I'm short and slim; my breasts are small, my waist and hips are narrow, and my arms, legs, and fingers are long. I look back at my face, reaching out and touching my reflection's cheek with my fingertips. I wear my curly, dark brown hair to my shoulders. My dark brown eyes are deeply set with violet rings beneath, making me appear sleep-deprived and haunted, like a ghost of a girl. My complexion is much too pale, but little sunlight escapes the dark, oppressive clouds of District 3, and besides, from nine o'clock to five o'clock on most days I work in Factory 3 alongside my sister; I hardly spend any time outside.

Sighing, I retrieve a clean pair of undergarments and put them on; then I search through my drawers for something acceptable to wear to the reaping. Normally, I wear colorless blouses and shapeless skirts that reach my knees, and occasionally, similarly styled trousers, but on Reaping Day, everyone is required to wear their nicest clothes. I find a strapless gray dress of decent length that most likely once belonged to Raphela, and I deem it worthy enough. I don't own any strapless bras, however, nor do I want to borrow one from Raphela, so after donning the dress, I simply tuck the straps of my undershirt and bra under my arms. Even though I'll be tugging at the neckline all morning to keep it from slipping and revealing what little cleavage I have, at least I look kind of pretty.

I unlock my door and go to the kitchen for breakfast, discovering that Raphela has prepared scrambled eggs with buttered toast. Eggs and butter are luxuries in District 3, and we can hardly afford either, but we always have a nicer breakfast on Reaping Day in the instance that either Raphela or me—or just me, considering that Raphela is no longer eligible—is chosen.

Even though eggs are one of my favorite things to eat, I can only pick at my food due to nerves. Raphela and Father are doing much of the same. Fifteen minutes speed past us, and Father breaks the silence by telling us in a dull voice that we need to leave. I take a quick glance at our plates before Raphela puts them in the refrigerator—this too is a luxury, found in a dumpster outside one of the many factories, brought home, cleaned, and repaired, all by Father and me—and discover that almost all of our food remains on our plates. Raphela then takes my hand and we follow our father out the the door.

We reach town square in a matter of minutes. Our previous escort, Julius Trumann, is not at the podium; a woman with golden corkscrew curls highlighted in magenta is in his place, leading me to believe that something happened to him. This new escort doesn't have Julius's enthusiasm; instead, she regards us all with nothing short of disgust, her violet eyes—artificial, most likely, and done to match her makeup and outfit—staring down at us haughtily. My breathing becomes rough upon seeing the sign-in area and the roped-off areas for potential tributes to stand; Raphela takes my face in her hands and whispers, "Ressie, it's okay. Remember, six in over a thousand. The odds are in your favor. It won't be you."

She can't be sure of this. Twelve-year-olds who have not taken out tesserae have their names entered only once, and they've been picked before. Those numbers mean nothing. Raphela's hands move down my arms; she holds my hands in hers and whispers again, "Ressie, be brave. It'll be okay. It'll be over soon. I promise. Then we can go home."

I nod, trying to appear assured for her sake, but I still find it difficult to breathe.

"Let's go," says the Peacekeeper at the desk.

"And remember," Raphela whispers, her lips brushing my ear; her voice takes on the false quality of a Capitol accent as she murmurs, "May the odds be _ever _in your favor."

I giggle once. "Thank you," I tell her as she walks away.

Unexpectedly, a Peacekeeper who must have heard her remark takes her by the arm and slaps her once across the face, knocking her to the ground. I begin hyperventilating; the Peacekeeper at the sign-in post orders me forward to sign in, and I do so, trembling like a leaf.

There's no one else in line because I am one of the last people here. "Name?" the Peacekeeper asks gruffly.

"Wiress MacDanielle," I whisper.

"Speak up," he orders.

"Wiress MacDanielle," I repeat, holding out my hand. He pricks my finger, wipes the blood in a large booklet next to my picture, and confirms my identity.

"Go ahead," he says.

I do so, putting my stinging finger in my mouth momentarily. My blood tastes of rust and salt.

"Welcome, District Three!" trills the new escort. "My name is Rochellita Spottsworth. I realize that I'm a bit new here, but due to the sudden...inability...of your old escort to be here, I have been transferred from District Seven to this...lovely place." Her voice, however, tells us that she thinks District 3 is anything but lovely. As she continues her speech and plays the video that is the Capitol's justification of the Hunger Games—as if anything so vile could _ever _be justified—I take advantage of my unique ability to tune out sound and instead take in the rest of the stage. Sitting on Rochellita's left is the mayor of District 3, Laurent Overwhill. On her right are the three victors originating from District 3, who will mentor the unlucky two chosen as tributes.

Our first victor won almost thirty years ago—I believe those were the 17th Games. His name is Bartemius Lockhearst. I've never seen his Games, but from watching him, they must have been traumatic; he is in his late forties, but he could pass for sixty and is completely senile. I don't think he can even speak.

The second victor from District 3 and our first and only female victor is Violette Galloway. She won the 36th Hunger Games exactly ten years ago by retrieving a machete from the Cornucopia and turning any tribute who came across her into mess. My parents didn't want Raphela and me to watch those Games because of how bloody they were, but we didn't have much of a choice; it's a nationwide law that everyone, no matter the age, watch the Hunger Games. I dreamed of my loved ones hacked to pieces for weeks afterward.

Our third and youngest victor won just two years after Violette and is named Beetee Jarvis. He won the 38th Games by constructing an electric trap made of wire and a metal antennae—the only gift from sponsors he received in the arena—and luring the remaining five tributes into it by using himself as live bait. He watched stoically as they screamed and jerked uncontrollably, and after almost five minutes of that torture, all five bodies dropped, one by one, and Beetee was declared the winner. Eight years later, at age twenty-five, Beetee is quiet and methodical. He seems to be eternally immersed in his own mind and hasn't spoken two words since his Victory Tour—none that I've heard, anyway. His face is always calm and collected, even detached, but behind his wire-framed glasses, his dark brown eyes are alive and bright with emotion. Even from this distance, I can read them easily, but I hardly need to; every year at the reaping, he is on his guard, shrewd, yet haunted-looking. I wonder if he remembers the tributes he killed in the arena; I wonder if he thinks about them. Watching his face, prematurely lined from how stressful his early life has been, I want to say that he does, knowing deep down that I have no way of proving this true or false. He holds his fidgeting hands in his lap; Violette grabs his wrist and gives him a look, presumably to calm him, and he shudders violently, snatching his arm away and glaring at her. If looks could kill, Violette would be dead at Beetee's hand, but she just rolls her eyes. Beetee faces the audience again, scowling, and for just a moment, a moment so quick I hardly believe it's real, his eyes seem to meet mine. His eyes are lovely; I've always thought so, even when I was a little girl. As I regard him a little more closely, I realize—almost with a jolt—that he's also very handsome. Thick, dark hair that brushes his glasses, those dark eyes, a pale complexion, a lean build...I blush and look away from him upon realizing how adolescent I sounded, daydreaming about a man much too old for me.

I rejoin reality and Rochellita's voice fills my ears once more. "Now, all of you strapping young gentlemen must be terribly sick of waiting," she says happily, seeming smug, "so for a refreshing change, let's have to boys go first!"

This is highly unorthodox, and the boys' area, situated to my left, seems to gasp as one. Meanwhile, the girls around me breathe a brief sigh of relief.

Rochellita dips her manicured hand into the boys' reaping bowl and swiftly withdraws a name. She opens it and cries, "Marcelle du Vaal!"

A small, twelve-year-old boy in oversized clothing walks toward the stage on shaky legs. Bile rises in the back of my throat and tears spring in my eyes. We haven't had a twelve-year-old boy reaped in such a long time...I suppose our luck just couldn't hold out. I dearly hope that the girl is older; older tributes have a better chance of survival.

Rochellita pats the boy called Marcelle on the shoulder when he joins her. Behind them, Beetee has his head in his hands. It must be routine for male victors to mentor boys and for females to mentor girls, so he must realize that Marcelle's life is now his responsibility; not only that, there is an alarmingly good chance that Marcelle is now condemned to die, and that Marcelle's death is now on his, Beetee's, conscience. I'm taken aback by the sudden urge to comfort him.

"And now, ladies," trills Rochellita, "you _finally _get your turn! Oh, the waiting must be _agonizing!_"

It is, but not for the reason she thinks. All of the girls, including myself, wait on tenterhooks to see if we're doomed to the same tragic fate as Marcelle or if we will live to see another day.

Rochellita plucks a name from the girls' reaping bowl, opens it, and reads, "Wiress MacDanielle!"

Oddly, the first thought to come to mind is that she pronounced it correctly. Few people are able to do so. However, I then realize that there is only one reason she would have called my name.

I have been chosen.

I stand alone in a sea of black terror. The group of seventeen-year-olds separates solemnly, forming a walkway for me to take to the stage. As I follow it, too numb to react, I take in each face and see the emotions I've worn countless times upon seeing the female tribute pass me: pity, and a sickening since of relief that the face does not belong to me or anyone I love. This time, however, the roles have been reversed, and upon seeing countless pairs of shoulders sag in alleviation, I can't keep the tears from stinging my eyes. I have never felt so alone.

I reach the stage. My ears are ringing as I stand next to Marcelle, so I have no idea what Rochellita is saying. Once again, I alertly consume my surroundings; upon facing the victors, one of whom will be my mentor, I see Beetee's face contort in pain. He seems to be feeling sorry for me. After a moment, he looks away.

This angers me. If I am going to die, Beetee will not pass me off as another statistic; I am a human being and will remain so for the remainder of my life. I stare at him. I _force _him to make eye contact again. He seems almost surprised, but after briefly glancing around, his expression turns to that of unease.

"Turn around," he mouths.

Reluctantly, I do so, realizing that I may be attracting attention.

"Shake hands, you two," says Rochellita to Marcelle and me.

Numbly, I grasp his small hand in mine and give it as firm a shake as I can. His is clammy and sweaty; his expression is that of pure terror.

"Happy Hunger Games, everyone!" Rochellita tells everyone with a sanguine smile. As she ushers Marcelle and me off the stage, I scan the crowd of people ineligible for the Games. Raphela and my father are situated at front. She leans against him, crying silently, a large, purplish bruise on the left side of her face. My father, the bravest man I have ever known, is crying as well.

_Be strong, Wiress_, I think. _Be strong...for them._

**So, what do you think? The content is the same, but I've written it differently and have hopefully improved it. Review and tell me if you like this version or the original version better!**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	2. Chapter II

The gloom of District 3 seems like an unreachable paradise as I'm swept away on the train that will take me to the Capitol, where I will be thrust into the lap of luxury before my imminent death. The train speeds toward the Capitol at a sinfully accelerated rate; I sit motionless by the window as I watch my life rocket away. Soon, all that's left is a grayish blur in the background. I can't put words to the sadness that fills me due to the sudden constriction of my throat.

After the reaping, I was ushered into the Justice Building and given some time to see my family for what will probably be the last time. I sat by the window, as I'm doing now, though instead of a comfortable bed, I sat in a rigid chair. I was so numb I wouldn't have felt the difference, anyway. Father lingered by me, crying silently, stroking my face and hair, and murmuring my name to himself, as if some greater power would realize that it could not be _his _daughter who was chosen and I would be replaced with some other unlucky soul. I did not want to look at him; I refused to cry and show how scared I truly was, how scared I still am. Raphela paced around the room, seeming inconsolable and swiftly morphing from a state of utmost distress to an outlook of optimism and back again. I did not want to look at her, either. I knew that if I did, I would break down in tears, and I could not do that to them. Toward the end of the painfully short time we got to spend together, Raphela said in a falsely cheerful voice that leaked her innermost fear, "You'll be fine, Ressie. I know you will be. You're smart. You can win."

I broke my vow to not look at them in all their grief and glared at my sister, something I have never done. "Raphela, twenty-four of us go into that arena. One comes out. Intelligence doesn't mean anything, and you know it. They don't want intelligence; they want a good show, and I'll give them one when I'm mauled by the Careers. You might as well just face it."

Raphela began to sob uncontrollably. A Peacekeeper entered the room at that point and ushered my family out, leaving me to stare out the window and count all of my regrets.

As I continue to gaze wistfully out of the clearest window I've ever looked out of and mourn what my life used to be, tears drip from eyes and stream down my cheeks. I should never have said what I did to Raphela. It was unnecessarily cruel. I will never see her again, and the last thing I did was make her cry.

The worst part, though, is that I was telling the truth. Intelligence doesn't mean anything to the Gamemakers; they want violence, blood and gore, not smarts. The only way a tribute like me can give them a good show is to die at the hands of someone much stronger, most likely a Career; I just hope dearly that I die at the bloodbath and that I don't feel it.

Even if I was given the tools to win, I would not have the incentive. My family, no matter how much they mean to me, is not enough incentive to murder the way Bartemius did, the way Violette did, the way Beetee did, and the way forty-two victors before them did. I will never kill another person. Not now, not ever—not even in the Hunger Games. My ultimate goal is to die pure and innocent, and to be buried in a beautiful virgin white dress untainted by the soot and ash of District 3. I will have earned wearing pure white. I know that my family will respect my decision and will feel nothing but pride when they speak of me from then on.

Because of his age and size, I know that Marcelle has even less of a chance at victory than I do. I hope for his sake that his death is quick and painless. After we boarded the train, reality seemed to hit him like a speeding bullet and he broke down in tears; Beetee brought him to his room and, to the best of my knowledge, is still there, comforting him to the best of his ability. I feel hollow, wishing someone—even Violette, who I presume is _my _mentor—would come and comfort me, even if their condolences mean nothing.

I glance numbly toward a clock on the wall, wiping my eyes so that I can read it. Eleven-thirty. Can it be possible that, just three hours ago, I was at home with my family? It doesn't seem that way. I kick off my shoes and lie on the bed, curling into a ball and feeling the weight of my despair press down on me. Rochellita knocks on the door and pokes her head in after another half an hour or so—I begin crying softly upon remembering that Raphela did the same thing just four hours ago—and informs me cheerfully, oblivious to my tears, that lunch is being served in the dining car. I tell her in a thick voice that I'm not hungry, hoping that maybe she'll say something to make me feel a bit better, but she just shrugs and leaves. I cry harder; I am completely alone.

I hear another knock on the door. Once again, I don't answer. When it opens, I sit up, wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and say to Rochellita in a voice as angry as I can muster, "I already told you I'm not hungry."

"I know," says my visitor—not Rochellita, but Beetee. He comes in and strides over to sit next to me on the bed without invitation. "I'd be surprised if you were."

"I thought you were with Marcelle," I say, wiping my eyes and impatiently tugging the neckline of my dress back in place.

"I was," he replies, "but he went to eat lunch a little while ago and I have about as much an appetite as you do; I don't think Marcelle is much hungrier, but he may just be trying to appease Rochellita. I'm afraid if I went with him to console him, I'd end up throwing up."

I laugh softly. "And all that aside," Beetee continues, his small smile fading into a more solemn look, "it didn't seem right to comfort him and leave you to fester here all by yourself."

I smile slightly. "Thank you," I murmur.

"You're welcome." He sighs. "I'm not very good at providing consolation, but I know that telling you that you'll be okay is ridiculous. I don't mean to say that as if I have no faith in you, but even if you win...you'll never be the same."

I wipe away more tears and brush my hair away from my face. "Beetee," I ask quietly, "_do _you have faith in me?"

To my surprise, he cups my chin, gently stroking my jawline with his long fingers. "Yes," he says finally, letting his fingers move to my cheek.

I instinctively lean my face into his palm, watching his expression curiously. No man has regarded me this way before. He doesn't watch me as if I'm a young girl, but as if I'm a woman. His eyes reflect sorrow and longing, and I'm suddenly uncomfortable with our proximity. I try to scoot away as nonchalantly as possible, but Beetee notices and backs away first, looking toward the wall and holding his hands in his lap again. His brow is furrowed. Tentatively, I crawl back to him on my hands and knees and ask, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he replies in a voice that tells me otherwise. He looks back toward me, and all traces of emotion have been wiped clean from his face and eyes. "It isn't me you should be worried about, Wiress. It's you. First, I want you to know that I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Me too," I whisper before I can stop myself, tears brimming on my lashes. Beetee sighs.

"But you aren't alone. I know how you feel," he continues. "I've been here before, remember?"

Of course I remember. However, he won the Hunger Games. I'm not planning on winning—not that I could if I tried.

He rises. "I'm here for you, Wiress, if you need me."

"Why would you...?"

"Because no one likes being alone," he says.

I stare. "How did you know...?"

"You were going to ask why I would be there for you when I just met you?" He finishes my sentence this time before filling in his reply. "You seem so lost; you look as if you feel unworthy. Of what, I don't know. I just want to make sure that we're friends here."

"Friends," I repeat.

"I'm not your mentor," he says. "I'm Marcelle's; Violette is your mentor. But she can be a bit..."

"Evil?"

Beetee laughs; the sound fills me with warmth. "I was going to say 'abrasive,'" he tells me. "But in all seriousness, she just isn't that friendly a person. Truth be told, I'm not either, but there's something about you..."

His sentence isn't completed; he seems too enraptured by my face. Once again, his longing is almost tangible. His hand finds mine; he squeezes it before gently trailing his fingers up my arm. When he reaches my shoulder, I pull back, uncomfortable with that fact that so much of my skin is exposed. I tug my neckline back in place.

"You were saying that there's something about me that...that what?" I ask, trying to continue the previous conversation and eradicate the awkwardness.

"Never mind," Beetee says. "I shouldn't have said anything. As I was saying, I'm here for you whenever you need me."

"Why?"

For the first time, he seems surprised. "Why?" he repeats. "Because you're..." He trails off. "You're a tribute," he finally finishes; his voice tells me that this isn't at all what he planned on saying. "Unless you win, you're living on borrowed time; I don't want you to have to face everything alone, the way I did."

He seems to regret letting the last part slip out.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," he says, looking away. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I, um...I suppose I'll go now."

I can't explain the disappointment that fills me. "Oh. Okay. I'll, um...I'll see you at dinner, right?"

"Right." With that, he walks out the door.

Even though it's lunchtime, I kick off my shoes and climb under the blankets. This bed is much more comfortable than the one at home, one of the many luxuries the Capitol has that we don't, but to me, it feels like lying on a bed of nails. I would much prefer my own bed, my own room, all inaccessible...I want nothing more than to go to sleep and discover upon waking that today was simply a bad dream...


	3. Chapter III

When I wake up, I look around in confusion as to why I'm in such a strange place; then reality hits with the force of a speeding bullet. I'm on a train on my way to the Capitol. The reaping was today, and I was chosen as the female tribute from District 3...

With tears in my eyes, I look at the clock, and to my surprise, it reads six o'clock. By looking out the window and seeing the sun in the west, I realize that it's six o'clock in the evening. Still, I'm surprised; I've been asleep for almost six hours. I didn't get much sleep last night due to nerves, so I reason that this is why I took such a long nap. I suppose that dinner will be served soon...this time, my absence will be more noticeable, but I decide to bathe before going. Bathing before dinner has been a ritual of mine for as long as I can remember.

I hesitantly enter the adjoining bathroom and can hardly smother my gasp. This room is probably as large as my living room back home. Not for the first time in my life, the Capitol's excess fills me with a righteous anger that seems to reverberate through my bones. Nonetheless, I do need to bathe, so I close the door, undress, and turn on the water. Hot water is a rarity in District 3, but this faucet's temperature is entirely at my command. Because the idea of wearing any of the clothes the Capitol has provided me with is revolting, I decide to wear my reaping dress and underclothes from yesterday; however, I also decide to wash them in the bathtub before I bathe myself. To my surprise, when I'm done, they're no longer gray. My dress is a pretty shade of vanilla and my undergarments are a crisp white. I was right about ash tinting everything gray in District 3. After hanging my dress and underclothes to dry, I turn the water back on to bathe myself. I hold my hand under gush of hot water that spurts from the faucet for a few moments to make sure to temperature is to my liking, and to my surprise, I can see the water that recedes around the drain tinted gray. I knew that I carried a fine layer of ash on my skin, but I didn't know it was this prevalent. For the first time in my life, I feel self-conscious about my lack of cleanliness and decide to take a shower instead of a bath to keep from sitting in a tub of my own filth.

I stand under the spray of hot water in awe for a few moments. It feels wonderful. I find a bottle of what I assume is shampoo—we have shampoo in District 3, but it's never so brightly colored, though nothing remains brightly colored for long in 3—and use my fingers to rub it into my tumble of dark curls. I gasp when I look down at my feet—the little water collected at the floor of the bathtub is tinted black.

After I've washed all of the soot, dirt, shampoo, and other contaminants out of my hair and off of my skin, I find a bottle of hair conditioner. When Beetee won his Hunger Games eight years ago, my mother was able to purchase a bottle of hair conditioner. There was still a third of it left when she died. I wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons, but Raphela told me flatly that keeping a bottle of goo was not sentimental in the slightest and used it for her hair instead. It was gone two days later.

I massage the creamy blue conditioner through my hair and find that, after only a minute or two, my fingers run through my usually tangled hair easily.

When I've finished showering, I find a fluffy towel and wrap it around myself before retrieving my dress and undergarments. After drying myself, I pull my clean dress on over my underclothes. Then I use one of the many hairbrushes provided to brush my hair. It dries fairly quickly and shines in wavy ringlets to my shoulders.

When I'm showered, dressed, and looking like a new person, I find my way to the dining car. Upon entering, however, I can't keep from feeling slightly awkward as I piece together that I'm the last one there—Beetee, Rochellita, Violette, and Marcelle are all waiting for me. I sit between Marcelle and Violette, across from Beetee, and diagonal to Rochellita.

I look at the wide assortment of food available to me—dinner rolls, a variety of meats, pastas, steamed vegetables, and some things that I can't name but nonetheless look delicious—and despite how hungry I suddenly am, I can't help the bile that rises in the back of my throat. The amount of food on this table could feed a family in District 3 for days, but in the Capitol, it's the amount of food a group of five is expected to eat in one sitting. It seems horribly unfair.

My hunger triumphs over my contempt and I grab a plate, ladling some pasta onto it and putting a small dinner roll beside it. As I nibble self-consciously at the bread, I quickly realize that everyone is looking at me. I swallow over a lump in my throat and pick up my fork, taking a bite of the steaming pasta sitting before me; when I shift uncomfortably, everyone refocuses their attention on eating. Marcelle, sitting at my right, seems to have regained his appetite as well, but his eyes are still swollen and red, and he keeps sniffing between bites. This obviously annoys Rochellita, but he doesn't seem to be able to help it. His misery is so much that I turn to him and ask, "Marcelle, are you okay?"

I regret the question as soon as it's asked. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that Marcelle is far from okay. He's still trembling like a leaf. Nonetheless, he answers my question by mumbling, "I'm fine," in a voice that tells everyone—except for Rochellita, maybe—otherwise.

I look around the table, chewing thoughtfully on another piece of bread. Violette's attention is entirely on her meal; as I watch, she pulls a small bottle out of her pocket and unscrews the cap, pouring what it probably liquor into her fruit juice. She replaces the bottle in her jacket and takes a sip of her drink even as Rochellita glares at her; Violette glares right back, daring her to comment, and when she doesn't—because even someone as scatterbrained as Rochellita must know that it's smart to be afraid of Violette—she turns her attention back to her dinner. I blanch slightly upon remembering that Violette is my mentor; if she's abrasive, as Beetee put it, when sober, I can only imagine how she will be when she's drunk. If she's my mentor, I'm going to be spending a good amount of time with her, so I'll have plenty of time to find out.

I continue surveying the other occupants of the table and my eyes linger on Beetee…similarly to how his eyes linger on me. His food sits untouched in front of him as he rests his chin on his elbow, those dark eyes of his mesmerized by my face; slowly, they scan downward, and I uneasily tug my slipping neckline back into place to keep him from seeing more than he should. I try to continue eating, but his stare is so penetrating and hard to ignore, so I finally look up and ask with irritation, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

My voice seems to break his reverie and he blinks rapidly, a flush creeping up his neck and slowly encasing his face. His arm drops to his lap; he doesn't answer my question.

"Do you have something in your eye?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"Aren't we Little Miss Curious this evening?" he retorts.

I throw down my fork a bit harder than I meant to. "It was just a question," I snap. "Is it against the rules to ask a question? If you're going to stare at me like that—"

"I was not staring," he interrupts.

"Yes, you were!" I insist. "I have eyes, you know—"

"Then use them properly. I wasn't staring at you."

"Yes, you—"

"You aren't making things better for yourself, Wiress," says Beetee, cutting me off. "I understand the situation you're in and I feel sorry for you, but my pity does not extend so far as to humiliate myself so that you can receive attention."

His words sting like a slap across the face. "I'm not vying for everyone's attention, I was just wondering—"

"Well, don't."

"Could you at least let me finish a sentence?" I cry. "You're infuriating!"

"Shut up, both of you," snaps Violette. "Some of us are trying to eat; could you two kindly quit bickering like an old married couple?"

At the word "couple," Beetee's face turns from pink to scarlet and mine is doing much of the same. Beetee puts the fork he was prodding his meal with on the table and stands. "I think I'll be going to bed," he says stiffly. "Goodnight."

He leaves without another word. Seething, I turn my attention back to the pasta that I don't want anymore. When everyone else is finished and departing to their own rooms for bed, most of my food is still on my plate. A twinge of sadness and guilt throbs inside me when I realize that it's probably going to be thrown away, but with a heavy heart, I accept that there is nothing I can do and instead march off in the direction Beetee took; upon finding what must be his bedroom door, I begin knocking on it. After almost two minutes, Beetee yells from inside, "Just open it!"

I enter the room and slam the door behind me; Beetee, sitting at a desk in the corner with his back to me, jumps a little at the noise but doesn't say anything. I cross the room purposefully and sit on the bed by his desk, folding my arms. Seeing his profile, I discover that Beetee seems to be playing with a length of wire. "What is your problem?" I demand.

"Yes, I'm having a good evening; how are you doing?" he replies without looking at me, his voice heavy with sarcasm. I glare at him.

"I mean it!" I insist. "What was with the whole speech about being my friend, and then staring at me, and then making me look stupid? Why did you do that?" Beetee doesn't answer me but continues messing with his wire. "And why aren't you paying attention?" I demand.

"I _am _paying attention," he mumbles.

I glare at him even more fiercely and move to snatch that darned wire away from him.

"Wiress, don't touch that!" he says sharply, but I ignore him. The second my fingers touch it, however, I feel it shock me. I pull away with a cry of pain and hold my burned fingers against my chest.

"I told you not to touch it!" Beetee says, turning to me. I keep my hand away from him; tears sting my eyes at the pain in my fingers. He holds his hand out. "Let me see," he says with a sigh.

I shake my head childishly.

"Wiress, let me see," he repeats.

I relent and put my hand in his. Beetee looks at my fingers and blows on them gently; then, to my surprise, he softly kisses the tip of each one. Sparks of a different and entirely new kind run through me as Beetee lets go of my hand.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Y-yes," I stammer, my face bright red. Beetee smiles faintly, then turns his back to me again, messing with the wire once more. I shake my head, trying to forget how his lips felt on my skin—so soft and warm and gentle. I wonder what they would feel like on _my _lips. I quickly shake my head again, disturbed by the thought, and I continue what I was saying. "What _is _your problem?"

Beetee sighs and turns to me again. "Wiress, I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You sure as hell do!" I snap. He raises his eyebrows at my use of profanity. Then he sighs again.

"I'll admit that I may have paid a bit more attention to you than I should have," he finally says. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Wiress. You're just…" Once again, he trails off.

"I'm just _what_?" I insist.

He sighs again, much more softly. "You're everything I wish I could be," he murmurs. "I've known you for such a short time, but even in the face of what could and probably will be your destruction, you still seem so sweet, so…_optimistic. _I admire that about you. I admire it a lot, actually." He pauses. "But at the same time," he continues, "you seem so…lost, like I said. So lost and lonely, so needing of love…and so afraid, though with reason, of course. And as I said this morning, I think you feel as if you're unworthy, though of what, I don't know."

I stare at him. He is a stranger, yet he has already characterized me so perfectly, so completely. I'm not sure if I like it. I want to deny everything, but instead, I say in shock, "How did you know?"

He chuckles once. "You're seventeen, Wiress. I've been in your shoes before. But…don't rush into doing things before you're ready, just because…just because you're alone," he finishes somewhat lamely.

I stare at him again, this time in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"There are some...things...that you will never get to...experience...because of your unfortunate fate, so...I want you to know that I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do to help. I...I understand that there may be certain...cravings...you may be having, experiences you yearn to have, but...to put it simply, I understand that there are things you want but can't have, and...I'm sorry. But please, promise me you won't try to rush into anything because you don't have high expectations on how long you have left to live. I know you want things you can't have. I'm sorry. Just...I'm sorry." He seems suddenly adamant. I sigh.

"Okay..." I say in a slow, uncertain voice. "If you don't mind, can I ask you one more question?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Why were you staring at me the way you were at dinner?"

I almost expect him to deny it again, but instead, he turns back to his work, his expression unreadable. I'm about to demand an answer who says softly, "You aren't the only one who wants things you can't have, Wiress."

I stare at him with my mouth slightly agape, my normally quick brain struggling to piece together the implications of what he just said. Beetee turns to look at me again, and this time, his expression is that of the most sincere longing. "You need to sleep," he says, struggling to keep his normal level of stoicism in his voice. I can still here the yearning, though, and it sends an ache through me as well. "You have a lot to deal with tomorrow," he adds, breaking through my reverie. He stands and slips his hand into mine, helping me to my feet and taking me to the door. I squeeze his long, deft fingers; his hand in mine feels very warm and natural.

The walk to the door is too short for me, and from the look in his eyes, too short for him as well. This delights me in a way that I'm incapable of explaining.

"Goodnight, Wiress," says Beetee with a small smile. I giggle softly like a schoolgirl.

"Goodnight," I reply. Reluctantly, I tug my hand away, and to my surprise, his head dips forward and his lips brush my cheek; my face grows warm in response to this unexpected kiss, but abruptly, Beetee pulls away and takes a few steps back.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he says to me, his eyes wide. I don't think he planned to kiss me. He seems confused, distraught, even.

I take a few steps forward, giving him plenty of time to back away. When he doesn't, I attempt to rid him of his indecision by kissing him on the mouth.

Beetee responds initially, but after a moment far too brief for my liking, he pushes me away, keeping his hands on my shoulders to hold me back. His breathing his rough and his face is red. When he looks up from his feet, I cower at how angry he suddenly seems.

"Get out," he says slowly through gritted teeth.

He gives me a shove in the direction of the door. I try to justify my impetuous act even though I don't understand the reason for it myself. "Beetee, I'm—"

"Get out!" he shouts.

I scurry out the door and Beetee slams it behind me; I hear it lock and tears fill my eyes. I blindly run back to my own room, kicking my shoes off, slamming the door, and throwing myself onto the bed face-first. I begin to weep uncontrollably, horribly loud, racking sobs that hurt my throat. My heart is tied in knots and aches like a chemical burn; twenty-four hours ago, I was at home with my family, and now, not only is my death as indisputable as the sum of two and two, I might be falling in love with the one man I can never, ever have.


	4. Chapter IV

I wake up the next morning with my hair matted and my face sticky with tears. I've hardly slept, and this is a very bad thing—today is the Tribute Parade, where I am supposed to bring pride to my district, but as soon as I drag myself out of bed and to the bathroom, I feel like I'm going to collapse.

I peer at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I groan loudly—I _look_ like I've spent the whole night crying like a six-year-old. I wash my face and try to brush my tangled hair—no such luck. I groan again, giving up and just taking a shower.

I don't even wash myself at first and just stand with my head tilted back, trying to drown the horrible memories of last night's disaster. Who knew that three seconds could make someone feel so miserable?

I close my eyes and massage some shampoo through my hair, thinking about kissing and Beetee, and kissing Beetee, which ironically is the best and worst moment of my life. I sigh deeply. Before last night, I had never kissed a boy. But Beetee isn't a boy; Beetee is a man, a twenty-five-year-old man with dark hair and incredible dark eyes that are so easy to get lost in and a lean, strong body and soft, warm lips—

I'm blushing fiercely by the time I snap myself out of it. Then, as I rinse my hair and turn off the water, drying myself with another fluffy towel, a question forms in my mind. Am I falling for Beetee? The idea is, at first, laughable. Beetee is much too old for me, eight whole years my senior. He's a Hunger Games victor as well; the blood of the tributes he murdered in the arena still leaks from his hands. And to ice the cake, I can't afford to be falling in love with _anyone_. Tomorrow begins training, the day after the next is a training session with the Gamemakers, then the interview with Caesar Flickerman, and finally, the Games themselves. Counting today, that's a total of five days remaining in my life, assuming I die in the bloodbath. It's already so hard to have to give up the people I love most—my father and Raphela—for the sake of morality. I can't have anything else preventing me from keeping my promise to die pure. It sounds selfish as I think of it, but there isn't much else I can do.

After my shower, I select an outfit as plain as possible from the massive wardrobe allotted to me and trudge to the dining car, hoping that Beetee has decided to skip breakfast.

But of course, that would make my life too easy.

"Good morning, Wiress," chirps Rochellita as I take my seat across from Beetee.

He raises his eyebrows over his coffee mug as he takes a sip; I try to ignore him as I scoop a small portion of scrambled eggs onto my plate. As I take a piece of toast and prepare to add a layer of one of the brightly colored jams I've been itching to try, I hear Beetee comment, "You look lovely this morning, Wiress."

I drop the knife onto the table, smattering the white linen with the magenta jam. I hastily replace the knife and instead pick up my spoon, gripping it so hard my knuckles turn white. The back of my neck feels hot and prickly. I'm unable to judge from Beetee's tone whether he was really complimenting me or if he was simply being sarcastic, but considering the terms we departed on last night, I'd say the latter. I take a bite of my eggs, scowling at him.

"So, Marcelle, Wiress, today we have the Tribute Parade," Rochellita trills, as if this wasn't painfully apparent. I hate being in front of crowds, and judging from Marcelle's bleak expression, I assume he feels the same way. "We'll be in the Capitol by lunchtime, and there, you'll meet your stylists and prep teams. They are going to make you look _fabulous_; oh, you two must be so excited!"

"Thrilled," I dimly hear Marcelle mumble between bites of the decadent-looking fruit tart he's eating.

I look around and notice that there's an empty seat; it only takes me a moment to realize who is absent. "Where's Violette?" I ask, wiping my mouth on my napkin.

Rochellita scowls. "I don't know. She _should _be here...Beetee, if you could wake her and ask her to—"

"No need to," someone snaps from the doorway. Violette staggers into the room and collapses into the seat on the other side of me. She reeks of liquor. "I don't need a babysitter. I can take care of myself."

"Aspirin?" Beetee offers, holding out a glass of water in one hand and two small white pills in the other.

Violette gives him the finger and growls, "Sit on it and spin, Jarvis."

He just shrugs, drinking the glass of water himself and replacing the aspirins in the bottle he must have brought from his bathroom. Violette doesn't seem to want to eat and instead slouches in her seat, glaring at everyone and demanding silence at the smallest noises.

Breakfast is finished shortly after Violette's arrival and I slink to my room to brush my teeth and reattempt brushing my hair before our arrival in the Capitol. If I'm going to be on television, I want to at least look presentable.

While yanking the snarls out of my hair, I hear a knock at my door. "Come in!" I call, wincing as I rip out a particularly large knot.

I go to the door to meet my visitor and, to my disdain, find Beetee standing by my bed, his expression unreadable. "Hello, Wiress," he says pleasantly.

I yank my brush through my hair, wincing again. "What do you want?" I mumble.

"Don't do it like that," he replies, gently taking the brush from me. He sits on my bed and pats the spot in front of him with his hand, indicating that I should sit there. Though my better judgment tells me not to, I do so, folding my legs beneath me. With skillful, tender hands, Beetee pulls my hair away from my face and begin gently tugging the brush through it. "You'll rip all of your hair out if you keep yanking it like that," he tells me.

"Why are you being so nice?" I ask.

I can't see his face, but I can picture his smile because of his tone. "We got off on the wrong foot," he says. "I'm just trying to clear the air. For both of us, let's just forget about what happened last night and pretend it never happened. Does that sound like a deal?"

I sigh as he continues to brush my hair. The tangles have been removed, but the motion and pressure of the brush is relaxing. "Alright," I say heavily. "We have a deal."

Beetee puts the brush on the bed and runs his fingers through my hair. "Thank you."

I hear another knock on the door; Beetee stands up immediately as Rochellita opens it and says, "We'll be in the Capitol in about five...minutes..." She trails off upon seeing the position we were in. "Beetee," she asks in a measured voice, "why are you in here?"

He seems uncomfortable, guilty, even. "I was just..."

"Going to see _your _tribute before we arrive in the Capitol to give him some pointers, I presume?" she fills in.

Beetee sighs, recognizing defeat. "Yes," he says, crossing the room and pushing her aside to leave. I make to follow him, but Rochellita stops me.

"You'll remember from this point on that Violette, not Beetee, is your mentor. Am I correct?"

She doesn't ask it as a question; it's clear from her tone that stating her claim false will result in punishment.

"Yes," I murmur.

Rochellita nods and pats my shoulder. "Good girl," she approves before walking out the door. I follow her into the sitting room, taking a seat on the sofa farthest away from Beetee and staring out the window as the glittering buildings of the Capitol creep closer and closer.

Sooner than I would have liked, we reach the train station. Violette forces Marcelle and I through the mob of photographers straining to catch a glimpse of us before we enter the Training Center. I wrap myself in a hug, terribly nervous, and I feel a familiar hand on the small of my back, gently helping me forward. "Just smile and keep looking pretty," Beetee murmurs in my ear.

I blush and smile slightly upon realizing that he told me to _keep _looking pretty, implying that he already thinks I look pretty. I quickly snap myself out of my reverie just as we're ascending the steps to the Training Center; Beetee said that we are clearing the air, pretending that last night never happened, and that includes my speculation that I may be falling in love with him. At the very most, we are friends. I have to admit, it feels nice to have at least one friend before my darkest hour.

Beetee has departed, presumably to his own room, by the time we reach our apartment in the Training Center, located on the third floor in correlation with our district number. The living room is probably the size of my entire house back home; it's dominated by two large, comfortable-looking sofas, a long dining room table that seems to be made of glass, and an enormous television. "The reapings of the other districts will be played shortly," chirps Rochellita. "If you'd like, Marcelle and Wiress, we can all watch them together before your stylists arrive."

"No, thank you," I mumble at the same time Marcelle says, "I'm good."

"Are you sure?" says Rochellita. "You don't want to get an eyeful of the competition? It may help."

"I doubt it," mutters my district partner, stuffing his hands in his pockets and barely concealing another sniff as he stalks to his room. I follow him down the hall and take a right contrary to his left to reach my room. It's easily three times the size of my bedroom back home and contains a large, plush bed with blankets and pillows decorated in every shade of purple there is. Next to it is a dresser undoubtedly filled with gaudy clothes that I would never dream of wearing; a door on the opposite wall leads to the adjoining bathroom. I sit on the bed and am fingering my hair when someone knocks on the door.

"Come in," I say.

Beetee enters the room. "Your prep teams just arrived," he says in a voice that barely conceals his disdain. "Thinking about what you'll be wearing had me wondering. Do you have a district token?"

I slump my shoulders, feeling stupid that I hadn't thought to bring something from home to comfort me in the final moments. Beetee's hand is already in his pocket before I can even confirm that I don't and by the time the word "no" escapes my lips, he has a length of golden wire in his hands. Another piece is coiled tightly around the center. Beetee extends the wire toward me and, remembering what happened when I touched wire in his hands last night, I take a step back. "Is that going to shock me?"

"No," Beetee chuckles. He moves behind me, brushing my hair over my shoulder and fixating what I realize is a necklace around my neck. He tightens it so that it won't fall off, moves my hair back, and takes a few steps backward. "Beautiful," he says in approval.

I fight the urge to smile. "What about Marcelle?" I ask, feeling guilty upon realizing that Beetee has spent much more time with me than with his own tribute.

"His prep team has already taken him to the Remake Center," he says, "and he's showed me his district token. It helped me remember that it didn't seem right for you not to have one."

"Thank you," I say. He smiles faintly.

"You're welcome." Beetee leaves the room, but the door is barely closed when three creatures so colorful they don't look real replace him, greeting me enthusiastically. I immediately decide that this must be my prep team. I try to return their welcoming, but I'm only able to stare, completely and utterly speechless.

"Well, come on!" says a woman with turquoise hair jutting out of her otherwise bare skull. She grabs my arm; her aqua-colored talons dig into my flesh and I wince.

"Where are we going?" I ask nervously as the other two, a man with a large, intricate tattoo covering the left side of his face and another woman with her skin painted in stripes of so many different shades it'd take me hours to name them all.

"To the Remake Center, of course!" chirps the striped woman. "We have to make you look _stunning _for the Tribute Parade!"

I'm ushered into an elevator. The tattooed man presses a button; I'm unable to tell if we're ascending or descending. I instinctively move into a corner, not wanting to be so close to this eccentric trio, but the spiky-haired woman shamelessly invades my space and tilts my chin up.

"Not bad," she muses in her strange Capitol accent. "Nice hair, a decent face." I blush as she lets her catlike eyes dip downward. "Not much else, though," she mutters. She turns to the other woman. "Zechariah, we have padding, don't we?"

"For what?" I cry.

"Well, look at yourself!" the spiky-haired woman replies, gesturing to my body. "You're built like a beanpole! I've seen twelve-year-olds with more curves than you!"

"I can't believe we got District Three this year; of all the rotten luck!" mutters the man.

I grit my teeth; to my disdain, the elevator stops and I'm brought into a room in what must be the Remake Center. The woman called Zechariah takes my arm in a pincer-like grip and yanks me to a chair that seems to have been conjured from thin air. I'm stripped naked and thrust into the chair in the center of the room, and for the next two and a half hours, I'm subjected to tortures so unnecessary it sets my teeth on edge. My bitten nails are shaped and polished; the man doing them, who I learn is named Duane, says in disgust, "Do you _bite _your fingernails?"

"Yes," I admit in a meek voice.

"That," declares the spiky-haired woman, Wilgehemia, "is disgusting. Why not chew bubblegum instead to break the habit?"

"I can't chew bubblegum," I explain.

"What, are you worried about the empty calories?" asks Zechariah. "They have sugar-free gum, you know."

"It's not that I don't like it or am afraid of weight gain—"

"Well, obviously; I never thought I'd say this, but you _need _to put on some weight," interrupts Wilgehemia.

"It's just that I'd rather use my money on something more useful, like bread," I continue.

My prep team regards me curiously. "Bubblegum tastes much better than bread," says Duane, seeming genuinely confused.

It hits me suddenly just how extravagantly the Capitol truly lives. They don't purchase food based on what is the most filling or inexpensive; they purchase food by what tastes the best. I want nothing more than to explain to them my reasoning, but I know that, even if they listen, they'll never understand, being from the Capitol, so I just keep my mouth shut.

It turns out criticizing me about the condition of my fingernails is just the tip of the iceberg. After my nails are shaped and polished, my prep team washes my entire body. I've always considered myself a reasonably clean person and have bathed not once but twice since the reaping, which was just yesterday, but from the way my prep team discusses me, I feel like I just walked out of a compost pile. They scrub me everywhere with sponges that seem to be made of steel daggers, successfully turning my whole body bubblegum pink; coupled with the existent blush on my cheeks, my face is maroon. After my hair and body are deemed clean, I am put through a process more torturous and painful than I have ever experienced, one I would not wish even on my worst enemies: waxing.

Long strips of white tape more adhesive than the black tape, also called "duck tape," that we use to crudely repair machines at home is applied to every inch of my skin below my collarbone and is then ripped off along with a layer of hair and what I'm pretty sure is most of my epidermis. Then, a soothing lotion is applied over my whole body. After my eyebrows are waxed, I'm instructed to stand; with a hot blush still visible on my face and neck, I manage to squeak, "Am I done?"

"_We're _done, if that's what you mean," Duane replies irritably. "But Orion still has work to do with you."

I'm spared having to ask who Orion is because a man walks into the room. He's hugely, freakishly tall—even by my low standards for height. He has to be at least six feet five inches, but he's probably taller. His skin is olive-toned and his hair is dark, dark brown, like mine and Beetee's. His eyes are dark gold and rimmed with a lighter gold eyeliner and eye shadow. He almost looks like an exotic god of some sort. I assume that this must be my stylist.

Orion shoos my prep team out of the room and comes back in with a huge white bag. I assume it has my costume for the Tribute Parade in it. I stand up and Orion helps me into some…_scanty _underclothes. I look down when I'm situated in them—really, I'm not much better off. Orion pulls my dress out of the bag and helps me into it. Then, with the help of the prep team that he calls back in, Orion does my hair and makeup while I stand with my eyes closed—I'm too scared to look down, but the top part of the dress that reaches my mid-thigh isn't flexible enough to allow me to sit. It doesn't even feel like cloth—it's cold and hard, like metal almost. Frankly, I'm terrified of the Tribute Parade—even when I was a little girl I've always been afraid of crowds. Finally, Orion leaves the room for a second and comes back in with a huge mirror, perhaps six feet tall by three feet wide. I sniffle involuntarily—it's so much like the one I have at home, except cleaner and a little larger.

"Don't cry," says Zechariah. I would be comforted by her words if she hadn't said them so harshly. It's more like she's saying, "Don't ruin your makeup!" then "Don't be sad." I clench my teeth to keep from sniffling again.

Orion takes my hand and pulls me gentler than I expected he could to the mirror. I gasp at my reflection.

The girl in the mirror's hair is dark brown and thick yet silky straight. It's layered in a really flattering way and reaches halfway to her elbows. Her dress is made of small black strips of metal that wrap around her horizontally from just above her breasts to her mid-thigh, where it breaks off into long sheets of some kind of netting; you can sort of see her legs through it, but not by much. Her eyes are rimmed in black and her skin is like porcelain. Everything on her is either black or white except for her pink lips. The girl in the mirror's expression looks shocked—it takes a minute to realize that she is _me_.

I look down and am proven correct—the dress the beautiful porcelain doll in the mirror wears is on my body as well. I touch the metal, slightly confused.

"What am I supposed to be?" I ask.

"A wire," says Orion.

_Wiress the wire. Oh. Ha, ha, _I think wryly. I have quite a few comments about how unrealistic this representation of wire is, but I don't voice any of them. I lean to the side a little and almost fall over—luckily, Orion catches me just in time. I move the bottom of my dress out of the way to look at my feet, which are adorned in black sandals with thin four-inch heels.

I turn to Orion fearfully. "I'm going to trip and break an ankle in these shoes!"

Orion glares at me. "No, you're not. You are going to _shine_, Wilma."

"Wiress," I correct.

Orion shrugs this off the wave of his hand, as if my name doesn't really matter. Anger flares through my veins.

I try to stomp out the door angrily, but my silly shoes prevent this. Instead, I half-walk, half-slide out the door at about a half a mile an hour. I keep a furious expression on my face, however, to show that I have some dignity.

As soon as I step into the hallway, I see Marcelle, who is dressed in a tuxedo made of the same shiny, band-like material as me. It sounds strange, but the effect is really nice. He looks handsome—more mature, at least. He smiles slightly at my scrutiny.

"You look nice," he tells me.

"You too," I reply, looking away.

Rochellita appears and ushers us to where our chariot sits waiting for us to board. "Don't forget to smile!" she tells us happily. "Kisses!"

She kisses the air—I cringe reflexively—and she runs back down the hall. Marcelle shrugs.

"Best get it over with," he says dully. He opens the door and steps outside.

My breathing is rough and hoarse and I lean against the wall. I can't do it—I just can't do it. My respiration is too loud for me to make out any other sound, so I don't hear someone approach and start in surprise when I feel a hand on my bare shoulder. I open my eyes and Beetee cups my cheek.

"It's just a chariot ride, not an execution," he says.

"I can't do it," I whisper.

"Yes, you can," he counters. "All you have to do is sit in a chariot, wave, listen to President Snow's speech, wave some more, and then it's over. It'll take an hour at the very most. You'll be fine."

I take a few deep breaths. "Okay. You're right."

"Of course I am," he replies.

I take a few steps back and put my hands on my hips, doing a pirouette. "How do I look?" I ask.

Beetee stiffens and clenches his jaw. I wait for his reply, for the compliment I need to get through the parade. "Do you really want to know how I think you look?" he asks in a measured voice.

I nod.

"I think you look like a streetwalker," he says, his low voice boiling with rage. "An adolescent whore. But I shouldn't speak so badly; I know it isn't your fault. You didn't choose to wear all of that makeup or that dress. And…at any rate, you shouldn't be asking my opinion on your appearance, anyway!" he concludes, blushing.

I take a few tentative steps toward him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replies. "_I'm _the one who should be sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did."

"It's okay. I forgive you."

"Why?"

I smile. "Because we're friends, remember?"

Acting on the same impulse that made me kiss him last night, I swiftly press my lips to his red cheek before turning around and following Marcelle to my chariot. My heart is pounding; I don't dare turn around to see his reaction, but I can hear him swearing under his breath and his footsteps as he storms off. Marcelle helps me into the chariot—given the material of my dress, it takes a good bit of maneuvering—and I focus on the clomping of our gray horses' hooves to keep from crying.


	5. Chapter V

The bright, flashing lights and deafening noise make it impossible for me to do anything but stare down my hands, gripping the front railing of the chariot so hard my knuckles turn white. Each wild thump of my heart seems to chant Beetee's name in my ears. _Beetee. Beetee. Beetee._

I kissed him again, after I told him I'd forget kissing him or wanting to kiss him. I told myself I wouldn't do that. Why am I such an idiot? I have exactly one friend in the world now, and that's Beetee. Why am I jeopardizing that friendship with my feminine wiles? Why can't I just accept the fact that Beetee is my friend and nothing more? He can never, ever be anything more than my friend. It doesn't matter what I may feel…

_No. Quit that_, I think firmly, lurching as our chariot stops and President Snow's voice fills my ears. _You don't feel _anything _for Beetee. Nothing but friendship. That's all it is. That's all it ever will be. That's all it _can _be…_

As Snow wishes everyone a happy Hunger Games—as if such a thing could exist—I begin sorting through my feelings for Beetee. I'm terribly confused, and Beetee seems just as perplexed, so I will have to be the one to sort this out.

Beetee has told me numerous times that he wants to be my friend. Even after less than two days, he's closer to me than he is to his own tribute, Marcelle. And even though this makes me feel a bit guilty, I wouldn't want it any other way. I _enjoy _Beetee's company. He makes me feel safe, an absurdity at this point, but a welcome absurdity nonetheless.

I kissed him. Twice. Once on the cheek, once on the lips. I can't describe the impulse that made me kiss him, but I enjoyed our two brief kisses very much. No, three kisses. He kissed me on the cheek last night. And he kissed my fingertips when his wire burnt me. He's touched me, too; he's stroked my cheek, my arm, my shoulder, my hair...his hands are always very gentle, but even when he touches me, he seems confused and startled, as if he isn't used to human contact. I remember the way he shuddered when Violette grabbed his arm at the reaping, and my heart melts when I realize that he not only is unused to human contact, he seems to dislike it, yet he willingly—even though he seems to regret it shortly after—touches me. That means something. He _trusts _me; he may not love me (do I love him?), but he trusts me, and considering that he's a Hunger Games victor, that's almost more phenomenal.

But I can't help but continue being perplexed. If Beetee trusts me, that doesn't explain why he constantly retreats from my kisses. And it doesn't explain him saying that I look like an adolescent whore. I realize that this dress reveals a bit more cleavage than I would like, but I actually like it more than I thought I would. I don't like makeup, but I don't think I'm wearing enough to look like a streetwalker. I actually think I look pretty.

I recall what Beetee said to me when we were entering the Training Center. _"Just smile and keep looking pretty." _He implied that he _already _he thinks I'm pretty. But does he think I'm pretty the way a man would find a younger sister pretty, or does he think I'm pretty the way a man would find a woman he could love as an equal pretty? And what are the implications of the latter?

My mind struggles to come up with an answer. Maybe...maybe Beetee _does _think I'm attractive the way a man finds a woman attractive. Maybe he doesn't want to face that because of all the consequences; a man his age being attracted to a girl my age never ends well. Maybe he touches me out of instinct, doesn't think first, and then retreats from my responses out of fear of starting something he could not finish. But does that mean he loves me? The idea of Beetee loving me the way I may love him makes my heart flutter madly. Beetee, in love with me...I shake my head madly. No, Beetee cannot love me. I only have a few days left to live; allowing myself to fall in love with Beetee—and even worse, allowing him to love me back—would have disastrous consequences.

But if I'm going to die, wouldn't it be nice to die having as many experiences as possible under my belt? Before last night, I had never even had my first kiss. I've never been in love or even had a boyfriend. Wouldn't I like to know what it's like to be loved by a man? I suddenly remember what he said to me last night, what I realize was advice:

_"There are some...things...that you will never get to...experience...because of your unfortunate fate, so...I want you to know that I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do to help. I...I understand that there may be certain...cravings...you may be having, experiences you yearn to have, but...to put it simply, I understand that there are things you want but can't have, and...I'm sorry. But please, promise me you won't try to rush into anything because you don't have high expectations on how long you have left to live. I know you want things you can't have. I'm sorry. Just...I'm sorry."_

Is that what he was talking about? Is that why he became so unraveled and angry when I kissed him? Is Beetee afraid that I'm going to turn to him, the only post-pubescent male, for fulfillment?

Does he love me enough not to let me do that?

My head is spinning; the chariot has begun rounding the City Circle again, and the steady movement makes me want to vomit. I'm so confused...maybe I should simply discuss this with Beetee. Yes, he said we were friends, and when friends have problems, they talk them over. It'll make me feel less insane, anyway.

The chariot stops in front of the same waiting point from which we boarded. Marcelle helps me out of the chariot and the two of us make our way to the elevator; my shoes are hurting my feet, so I take them off and carry them as we step into the elevator and press the button for the third floor. We reach it with no complications; Marcelle bids me goodnight and departs to his own room. I do the same, peeling off my dress and finding a long, white nightgown to replace it. I then use the bathroom sink to scrub the thick layer of makeup from my face; it takes a while, but soon, my skin is clean and I look like myself again. I tentatively brush my straightened hair; I wince as hairspray tugs, but I grit my teeth and continue brushing until my hair is smooth as silk. I pull it into a ponytail and have just retrieved a toothbrush to brush my teeth—I haven't eaten dinner, but I still feel slightly nauseous, so I don't think I'll be able to hold anything down—when I hear a knock on the door. Expecting Beetee, I quickly rinse my mouth, tuck my hair behind my ears, impatiently replace it in front of my ears again, and walk as calmly as possible to the door. However, when I open it with a welcoming smile, it isn't Beetee who greets me. Instead, it's Rochellita.

"Hello," I say uncertainly, but without waiting for an invitation, she barges into the room, fuming. "Is something wrong?"

"'Is something wrong?'" she mimics. "You just _ruined _me!"

I gape at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Did you even _see_ the footage of the chariot ride earlier?" she wails.

"No," I say solemnly, "I was in here."

"I told you simply to wave and look _happy_. And you're just staring ahead like you don't have a brain!"

I glower at her, pursing my lip as I've seen my sister do. "I can't act happy when I know that I have less than five days to live," I say coldly. "I'm sorry if my life is of no concern to you, Rochellita."

"Just listen to me," she replies, her voice shaking with anger, "if you do what Orion and I say, you _might_ survive because you'll get _sponsors_. If you _don't_, you'll be one of the first to go, and if I have to _guarantee_ that, I will. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," I snap. "Now get out."

Rochellita flounces off as if she's better and more valuable than me. Whereas in another life, I'd be afraid of her, I now simply roll my eyes. I used to think she was important, powerful even, but now I know she's just a colorful doll barking orders and letting innocent children drop like flies.

About a half an hour after Rochellita leaves, I hear another knock on my door. I sit up, having been lying back on the bed, and call, "Come in."

Beetee opens the door and closes it behind him, slowly inserting his hands in his pockets and sighing. "We need to talk," he says.

I move to the edge of the bed and sit down, patting the space next to me. Beetee seems uncomfortable, but he sits next to me anyway.

"I want to know why you did it," he says.

"Did what?"

He scoffs quietly. "For someone so smart, you're a rather poor actress. Don't play dumb. The kiss. Or kiss_es_, I should say. I want to know why you did it."

I look at him even though he won't look at me. "Because I thought it was what you wanted," I reply.

"You think too much," he says stiffly.

I inch a little closer, tentatively placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He tenses but doesn't throw it off; I count this as a good sign. "You seem troubled."

"It doesn't matter."

"You said we needed to talk. You have to do something of the conversing if you want to call this a 'talk,'" I explain.

"I just wanted to know why you...did what you did. That's all I wanted to know. Look, I'd better be going—"

"Wait." I grab his arm, pulling him back onto the bed next to me. He looks at me in some surprise but doesn't protest. "We should talk. Talking is good for the soul."

"And who taught you that?"

"My mother. She used to say it all the time."

Beetee regards me curiously. "Why did she stop?"

I look down at my lap. "She died when I was little."

"How?"

I sigh sadly and he says, "That was a stupid question. Forget I said anything."

"Do you really want to know? It's not a pretty story."

"My story's not pretty either. No one's is."

I sigh deeply. "Okay."

Cautiously, I lean my head against his shoulder. Beetee doesn't resist and, to my surprise and delight, wraps an arm around me. I close my eyes. And when I do, the whole world alters, but only to me…

_I am eight years old. I sit in a kitchen chair while Mother braids my hair._

_"Can you do my hair next?" asks Raphela._

_"Maybe when we get back from the market," Mother says gently. "Wiress is going to come with me."_

_I nod happily._

_"Well _I _don't wanna go," says Raphela haughtily. "I'll stay with Father, if you don't mind."_

_Mother ties the end of my braid with a little rubber band. I jump to my feet and race to my small room to pull my shoes on. Once I'm done I run to the front door. Mother follows me out, humming pleasantly._

_"What are you singing, Mother?" I ask._

_She smiles at me and sings a little louder:_

"I don't want us to fight because I love you so,

It's hard on me 'cause I can't let you go

When I look in your eyes,

I find my paradise,

Forever I will need you by my side…

My safe haven is lying in your arms,

Because I know you'll protect me from harm

If you're to fly away,

Come back if I say, 'Stay,'

I promise you'll I'll always do the same._"_

_When she finishes she smiles wider and gently kisses the top of my head. _

_"I like it when you sing to me," I say._

_Mother closes her eyes, weaves her fingers through mine, and continues humming her song._

_It doesn't take long to get to town, and it doesn't take much longer to see that something is happening. A huge crowd has gathered around a fixed point that Mother and I can't see. Mother pushes herself—and me as a result—to the front. _

_A shirtless little boy kneels in front of a post. His wrists are in front of him and tied together in front of the post. He's shaking from the cold and from fear. Our Head Peacekeeper, Remus Freeman, stand behind the boy with a whip in his hands._

_Mother steps forward. "What is his crime?" she asks boldly. Everyone stops moving and becomes dead silent._

_"This cretin was caught stealing food. A whipping is punishment for his crime solely because he is so young. If he was older, it would've been hanging."_

_I shiver. "You misunderstand," says Mother. "This is my son."_

_I gape at her. I've never seen this boy in my whole life, and I don't think she has, either._

_"I told him to steal food so that, in the less likely chance he was to get caught—as I most certainly would have been—he might not be punished. Obviously," she adds coolly, "I was wrong. Punish me instead—it is my crime."_

_I shake my head, unable to speak. And, to my horror, another Peacekeeper unties the small boy and pulls my mother to the post. She turns her back modestly and unbuttons her blouse, then pulls of her undershirt and bra. Completely topless, she kneels in front of the post and the other Peacekeeper ties her wrists._

_I'm too numb to speak. No. No, no, no..._

_I scream as the whip bites down into my mother's tender flesh. She doesn't scream. They give her ten, twenty, thirty, forty lashes, and yet she doesn't scream. As Freeman pauses for breath every ten lashes or so, she remains completely silent._

_Again and again he whips her, and she takes the lashes without a single scream or moan of pain. I can't scream anymore. I'm completely silent, with tears running down my cheeks. Finally, after a _hundred _lashes—Mother's back is a raw, bloody mass of flesh—Freeman orders another Peacekeeper to untie her. She carefully leans down to pick up her discarded blouse, which she covers her breasts with modestly. Other than the blood running down the raw chunk of flesh that was once her back and her slow gait, the way Mother walks is with great dignity. It seems almost as if _she _was the one who applied the whip. _

_She reaches me, turns toward Freeman and says calmly, "Go fuck yourself, Remus Freeman."_

_There's an instant uproar at these four words. Freeman looks at Mother, and then makes a grab for me. I'm so horrified I don't react quickly enough and am yanked to Freeman's side by my arm._

_"Seeing as you _obviously _didn't learn your lesson," he says, grinning nastily, "we'll just see if this little _bitch_ -" he yanks my arm "- can help you."_

_Mother grabs his wrist and bends it back sharply. I hear a tiny snap and he howls in pain, releasing me as a result._

_"Never," she says fiercely, "lay your filthy hand on my daughter again."_

_I run back to her side, but our reunion is short-lived; another Peacekeeper grabs Mother by the arm and puts his strong, large hands around her throat._

_I hear a sickening snap. He releases my mother and she falls to the ground._

_I gasp. I know she's dead. I can't scream. I can only whisper, "Forever I will need you by my side..."_

By the time I've finished my gruesome tale, Beetee's arms are wrapped around me in consolation and my head is nestled in the hollow of his neck. His embrace is warm, and strangely, I'm not perturbed by the closeness; in fact, I'm comforted by it.

"That's...that's horrible," Beetee finally murmurs. He must have noticed our proximity, but he seems just as at ease as I am. I count this is a silent victory, but it's short-lived; Beetee pulls away slightly after a moment, though one arm is still wrapped around my waist. The fingers of his other hand begin to gently trace my jawline. "It doesn't seem fair that you've gone through so much already," he says softly, "but still have to go through the greatest horror of them all."

"You'll help me through it, right?" I whisper, overwhelmed by aching need for his confirmation of this fact.

"Yes," he replies, still stroking my cheek.

"Promise?"

Beetee sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he takes his arm from around my waist and places his hand on my other cheek. "Here's my promise," he whispers.

After assuring that I won't pull away, Beetee lowers his lips until they touch mine.

I start in surprise, but I don't protest. After a moment or two, I slide my arms around his neck and pull myself closer to him, twining my fingers in his hair. His lips are still on mine, kissing me gently, expertly, passionately. My heart, already beating loudly, will soon jump out of my chest if it continues at this rate. Beetee's hands slip from my face and find my shoulders; the sleeveless nightgown gives him access to my shoulders and collarbone, and he traces patterns on both with his fingertips. I lean into his kiss, responding with a passion I didn't know I had. I feel safe, so very safe in his arms. He's intelligent and funny and handsome and gentle and compassionate. I need someone to protect me, to make me laugh, to make me feel beautiful. Just from this one kiss, I know that Beetee can do all of this and more. He is everything I want and need. And that only means one thing.

I've fallen in love with Beetee Jarvis.

And if this is true—and I'm certain it is—there is another question to be asked. Does Beetee love me? I remember speculating it during the Tribute Parade, but is Beetee's love for me anything more than that? Speculation, and maybe mindless, adolescent fantasy? It certainly doesn't seem that way from how tenderly he kisses me, how sweetly, yet how passionately. Maybe, just maybe, Beetee loves me too...

When his tongue touches mine, I'm unable to stifle a gasp. Beetee gasps immediately after I do—but for a different reason.

Beetee's hands, situated on my wrists, find my shoulders and push me back. I look into his eyes, desperate for an explanation.

His breathing is as rough as mine is. Just like after our kiss last night, his face is red. He doesn't seem able to speak. I look into his eyes again, and what I find there makes my heart race. His eyes are alight with unspent passion, with desire, but also with fear and unease. My heart is beating so loudly I'm almost positive he can hear it. If I tell him I love him now, right now, maybe he won't be so afraid…

"I shouldn't be here," says Beetee in a strained voice. He stands up and takes a few shaky steps backward. "I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry."

"No, Beetee, wait." I grab his arm and pull him close to me again. A small moan escapes his lips; the sound converts every nerve ending in my body into a live wire.

"Wiress," Beetee says in that same constricted voice, "I want you to promise me that if I ever touch you again, you'll either hit me over the head with something or start screaming until someone comes. Do you understand?"

"No," I whisper. "I…I can't."

"And why the hell not?" he flares.

His needless anger infects me too and I retort, "Because I love you, that's why!"

Beetee's eyes widen behind his glasses. He takes a few steps away from me, running one hand through his hair. "No, no, you can't," he whispers. "No, you can't."

"I do," I say in a softer voice. I step toward him again, reaching out a hand to cup his face, but Beetee turns on his heel, his shoulders shaking, and marches determinedly out the door. I stare after him, my eyes wide.

When reality sinks in, I lapse into broken sobs. I told Beetee I loved him, and he left. That can only mean one thing. He doesn't love me back. He sees this as a game, fraternizing with a girl in the hopes of getting what he wants from her before her untimely death. Maybe he does it with all the female tributes. Maybe it's his sick way to get thrills.

Either way, he's broken my heart beyond repair without having to say a word.

I hurry to the doorway, hoping Beetee can hear my voice as I yell, "I'm not going to be another pawn in your sick game, Beetee Jarvis! Just stay away from me! I hate you!"

I slam the door as hard as I can and continue crying. I lied. I don't hate Beetee. I love him so much I can barely take it. And if he continues to use me as his plaything for the remainder of my time in the Training Center, I know that, deep down, there is nothing I can do to stop him.


	6. Chapter VI

After a few hours, I cry myself into a fitful sleep, curled up on my side under the blankets. My sleep is anything but restful, however. I dream of Peacekeepers whipping my mother's back bloody and raw. My loved ones, emaciated and starving, clawing at a mountain of food but being unable to touch it, and I, healthy and strong, being restrained by Beetee and unable to help them. Me using a machete the way Violette did and hacking Marcelle to pieces while his hands and feet are bound with rope, but then, after my victory is announced, I am unable to stop myself and use that machete to go on a killing spree, murdering my father, my mother, my sister, Beetee...after what seems like an eternity of this torture, my dreams take another, surprising turn. I am in my bedroom back home, and Beetee, clad in only his trousers, standing before me, his arms around my waist, his long fingers playing with the zipper of my reaping dress..."I love you, Wiress," he murmurs, kissing a trail from the corner of my eye to my collarbone...he picks me up effortlessly and lays me on the bed, on my back, and I stare up at him adoringly, eagerly, as he sits on the bed, one knee against each of my hips, leaning down and putting his hands on his back again...he uses those long, deft fingers to unzip my dress and pull it down my torso, pressing his warm lips to each new sliver of skin that's exposed...

I sit up sharply in bed, panting and holding one hand over my chest. A dream. Just a dream. My family is safe and alive in District 3. I will not kill Marcelle or _anyone_, whether in the arena or otherwise. And as for the last one…I can't explain away that one as easily, so I choose to just forget it for the time being.

I wash my face, attempt to untangle my hair—after several tries, I simply give up—and search through the dresser to find something to wear. As I shove the gaudy, sparkly clothes aside, looking for _something _semi-suitable, a pile of fabric falls to my feet. I look down and pick it up, examining it curiously. It's a dress, which isn't new for this wardrobe, but it's more…me. _No, _I correct in my mind, _more District 3_. The dress is pale gray, with a collar and buttons going all the way to the bottom, which is about at my knee. I run the fabric through my hands; it feels familiar, so achingly familiar. Like home.

Dimly I think that a past District 3 girl must have left this here. More likely than not, the owner of the dress is dead now. I might have even seen the Hunger Games she was in. I press the dress to my face and inhale its scent—it smells just like home.

I almost start crying again, but a rigid determination replaces my sadness. Whoever owned this dress was murdered by the Capitol for their sick pleasure. So, I'll wear the dress. I will pay my respect not just to this girl, but to all of the fallen tributes—not just from District 3, but from all of the districts.

It's a little dirty with soot, but I don't even bother washing it as I strip out of my current gown and button my new dress over my slim figure. There must be at least thirty buttons, and I fasten all of them with my eyes closed, thinking of a District 3 tribute that died with each one.

When my dress is buttoned up, I pull on my worn shoes and walk down the hallway to the dining room for breakfast. I don't know why I bother; I don't think I can eat anything ever again. But I would like something to drink; the crying taste in my mouth is awful.

I sit next to Marcelle and lay my head on my folded arms. Maybe a short nap is what I need…

"Wake up, Wiress!" Rochellita snaps, slapping the table with the palm of her hand. I jump to my feet so quickly that I knock over the jug of orange juice.

Rochellita groans exaggeratedly and calls over a pretty girl with a blonde bob to clean up the mess. She immediately obeys, running off only to grab a towel. When she comes back, I take the towel from her.

"It's my mess," I say kindly. "I'll clean it up."

The blonde girl looks from me to Rochellita fearfully. Rochellita's already angry expression becomes even angrier; the girl snatches the towel out of my hands and kneels down to clean up the mess I made.

I don't know why I feel so strongly about this, but I get down on my knees next to the blonde and yank the towel out of her hands. She looks at me in fear.

"It's my mess," I repeat in a slow voice. "I'll clean it up."

"Wiress," I hear Rochellita snap, her voice like a willow switch, "get up and let her clean up that mess."

I stand up slowly and glare at Rochellita with more anger than I knew I had. "I made the mess," I retort. "I'll clean it."

"Wiress, it's her _job_ to clean it," says another voice from behind me. I don't turn around, although I recognize it perfectly well.

"Why?" is all I want to know.

"Because," says Beetee, "she's an Avox."

That rings a dim bell. I turn around slowly and, without meeting his eyes, murmur, "What's an Avox?"

"A prisoner," he explains, "of the Capitol. She's a servant for all of the tributes because of something she did."

As if on cue, the blonde girl stands up shakily and turns around. I walk up to her, tap her shoulder, and ask, "What did you do?"

"Wiress, you can't talk to her!" Rochellita shrieks.

"Besides, Wiress, she _can't_ talk," Beetee adds, his voice cold. "They cut her tongue out."

I stare at the girl's shaking back in horror. They cut her _tongue_ out. Her _tongue_. What kind of monster could do that to another person?

The girl walks off, trembling violently. I turn and walk back toward my room.

"Where are you going, Wiress?" Rochellita demands.

"I'm not hungry."

"You do realize," she flares, "that your performance reflects on me? On Violette?"

Marcelle asks, "Where is Violette?"

"I'm here," Violette replies drunkenly, lifting her head off the table.

I turn to Rochellita slowly. "I'm not hungry. I want to go back to sleep."

"Do you think I give a damn what you want?" she asks quietly, her voice shaking with rage. "Do you think the Capitol gives a damn what you want? The world? No one gives a damn about you, Wiress. You're just another unlucky soul who's going to be killed eventually. Just suck it up and deal with it."

To the surprise of Violette, Rochellita, and Marcelle—to say nothing of myself—Beetee stands up suddenly and leaves without explanation. Rochellita shakes her head a little and says to me as if nothing happened, "Eat."

I sit down but refuse to eat a bite of anything. After an hour, Rochellita and I are alone and I still haven't touched a thing.

"Fine!" she snaps. "Go. I don't want to see your sorry face anymore."

I get up and walk back to my room. Halfway there, however, I stop and cock my head, listening. Someone's crying.

_It has to be Marcelle_, I think to myself. But it doesn't sound like him…

_Stop wishing like that_, I think firmly. _It's just Marcelle. Only Marcelle._

_Beetee doesn't care, anyway._

* * *

Before I'm ready, Violette comes in my room and drags me to the gymnasium on the ground floor of the Training Center. I cling to Marcelle, though he's shorter than me, and look around fearfully.

I don't recognize any of the tributes because I didn't watch the reapings. Mentally, I kick myself for this. I should have watched them.

_I didn't have a chance to_, I think, but kick myself again. _Yes, you did. Rochellita was going to have everyone watch them, but you had to be all righteous and say no._

I scan the room, looking for anyone who seemed as scared as me. I gulp—if anyone in this room isn't in it to win it, they aren't showing it.

Violette grips my arm. "Listen to me," she says; I cringe because her breath smells like alcohol. "You aren't strong, and you aren't fast. Your best bet strategy-wise is to set traps and hide, so work on snares and basic survival skills." She shoves me into the room. "Go."

I look around for something relatively safe to do. Finally, I settle on fire starting. That can't be too bad.

The instructor looks at me uninterestedly while I try to start a fire with two rocks. Painstakingly, I rub them together, but no matter how hard I try, they won't light.

"Uh," I ask, embarrassed. "Can I have a match? Or two?"

"Or twenty," the instructor mumbles, handing me a bright red box with the word MATCHES written across it in white.

My face the same color as the box, I take a match out and swipe it against the side of the box. Nothing. Not a single spark.

Finally, I get a little flame, but it brushes my little finger. I drop the match with a cry and blow on my finger, putting it in my mouth to make it stop stinging.

"Someone's not used to playing with fire," someone says.

I look up. The girl standing over me is maybe fifteen, with red hair accented with a huge black strip.

"Hi," she says, kneeling by my side and taking the matchbox. "I'm Dextra. District Eight."

I take my pinkie out of my mouth. "Wiress," I say quietly. "District Three." I look at her hair. "How did you get your hair like that?"

Dextra grins, as if she loves telling this story. "I stole some black dye from a factory," she explains. "District Eight makes textiles."

"You didn't get in trouble?"

"I didn't get _caught_," she corrects with a laugh. I look at her eyes—to my surprise, they're bright baby blue. "So," she continues in that same cheery voice, "I hate dilly-dallying, so here it goes: the boys from Districts Six and Ten are forming alliance with me. We're basically bloodbath fodder on our own. No offense, but you're giving me the same vibe. You in?"

I look at her in shock. An alliance?

"Sure," I say without thinking. "Can my district partner be in it too? He's only twelve," I add, "and I'm scared for him."

Dextra smiles sympathetically. "Sure. What's his name?"

"Marcelle."

"Cool," says Dextra. She looks around idly. "What have you done? I mean, in training."

I blush. "This is it."

Dextra gapes. "Really? No weapons?"

"I just got here," I mumble.

"You know what you should try?" she says. "Bow and arrow. You'd be good at it."

I cock my head. "Really?"

Dextra grins. "Really, really."

I sigh. "Okay, then."

"I'll be at the third table during the lunch break," says Dextra, standing up. "Bring Marcelle so me, Seymour, and Hollen can catch you up to speed. Bye!" she calls, skipping off toward the camouflage station.

I look at her and it hits me with the force of a truckload of bricks: she's just like Raphela. Same carefree attitude, same planning, same intelligence. And she immediately became allies with two boys. So Raphela.

I feel like I might cry, so I walk over to the bow and arrow section. The boy from District 1 is pelting the target's bull's-eye with arrow after arrow. I watch in awe.

I walk a little closer to observe his technique and trip over a bucket of spare arrows. I fall on my face but scramble up in time to see the boy pointing an arrow right at my forehead.

"No!" I scream.

He shoots.

To my bewilderment, I don't die or even feel pain. The arrow bounces off harmlessly. I look around in confusion, and everyone around me is laughing.

"Look," says the girl from District 1, flanking to her partner's side, "it's a rubber-tipped arrow, dumbass. And you're screaming like your life's in danger!"

The laughing gets louder. I feel my face growing warm. I'm a laughingstock. On the first day.

I slowly get to my feet and scan the crowd of blurry faces for Marcelle. I can't see him, or Dextra, or Hollen or Seymour - not that I know what _they_ look like.

Thankfully, someone—I don't know who—calls for lunch. Everyone scrambles out the door like we're in first grade except for me.

I find Dextra and two boys who must be Hollen and Seymour talking animatedly at the third table, just like Dextra said. To my surprise, Marcelle is already sitting with them. I walk over without getting anything to eat and sit next to the dark-haired boy.

"Here she is," says Dextra happily. "Seymour, Hollen, that's Wiress. Wiress, that's Seymour"—she points to the blond boy to her left "—and that's Hollen. You already know me and Marcie, of course."

To my greater surprise, Marcelle just rolls his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that, Dex."

I feel slightly left out that everyone's already comfortable and getting nicknames but me. I brush it off and ask, "So…what are we talking about?"

"The Careers," says Hollen distastefully.

"Blech," says Dextra. She shudders like…like Beetee does when you touch him unexpectedly. Thinking about him makes me feel strangely lonely, so I shut him out of my head.

"So," says Seymour, obviously continuing a discussion already in place, "I'm really good with a spear."

"Ooh," says Dextra with a grin. "Dextra likes that a _lot_. Hollen, what can you do?"

"I make traps," says Hollen.

"Traps?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "Given five minutes, I can trap a two-hundred pound man with only twenty feet of rope."

I smile encouragingly. "That's good. We won't need to trap anything that heavy, though." I'm glad I teamed up with Hollen. With his snares, we wouldn't have to worry about food assuming there are muttations in the arena—and there undoubtedly will be.

Dextra cocks her head. "I don't know, Wiress. Some of the Careers this year are pretty big."

"What do you mean?"

Suddenly, Dextra starts laughing. I feel slightly embarrassed as I ask, "What's so funny?"

"_You_," snorts Dextra. "You think these are for animals, don't you?"

I nod slowly, still not getting the joke.

"They're for the _Careers,_" says Seymour in disbelief.

"But what happens if they break free?" I demand.

Dextra's hysterical laughter renders her incoherent, so Hollen answers me instead. "Wiress, we'll kill them before they can break free. Duh."

My jaw literally drops. I look at Marcelle, who's arched his eyebrows as if he can't believe I didn't already know.

Kill the Careers.

Kill. The. Careers.

"We can't _kill _them!" I say, a little louder and higher than I meant to.

Dextra gains control of her laughter and asks, "Why not?"

I glare at her smiling face. "'Why not?' '_Why not?_' They're _human beings! _We can't just _kill _them!"

"Oh, sure, because that's what they'll think when we're strung up in one of _their _traps," says Seymour coldly.

I stand up shakily. "I change my mind. I don't want to be a part of this alliance anymore."

I get a few strange looks from the four other occupants at the table, but no one begs me to stay. Dextra, however, does say, "Wiress, you have to choose between—sorry to be corny—life and death. You'll live longer if you ally with us. We can work together then. But if you choose to go it alone...well, our strategy is to wipe out the weaker ones first. If we come across you, we _will _kill you. Don't make us do that; we need all of the allies we can get."

"There can be only one winner," I retort. "What happens when you're the only three left? Then what? Come on, Marcelle." I turn to leave, expecting him to follow.

I hear no footsteps behind me. I turn and, to my surprise, see Marcelle still sitting with Dextra.

"I'm staying," he says simply. "I'm sorry. It isn't smart to go it alone this early in the game. But no hard feelings, right?"

My eyes fill with tears. Marcelle either doesn't notice them or ignores them. "I'm sorry," he repeats before turning back to his alliance. He doesn't seem sorry, though. It doesn't seem to care. Just like Beetee.

I turn away from the group of four and briskly walk out of the cafeteria.

* * *

I try to slip into the apartment unnoticed, but Rochellita is watching a television program and Violette is at the table drinking, so both see me enter.

"What are you doing back so early? Training doesn't end until five o'clock!" says Rochellita.

"What, did you have a rough day?" asks Violette with a snigger.

I don't answer either of them. Instead, I stalk over to Violette, grab her liquor bottle—she's so shocked she surrenders it immediately—and march toward the window. I open it and begin pouring the contents of the bottle out the window.

"What the hell?" shouts Violette.

"Wiress, you cannot just pour liquor out the window! It might hit someone important!" cries Rochellita.

Again, I ignore them and continue pouring until the liquor bottle is empty. Then I shove it into Violette's hands and, without a single word, trudge down the hall to my room. Once there, I collapse onto my bed and begin weeping. Have I just made a huge mistake? If I plan on dying for the sake of my morality, then no, I haven't. But no matter how much I try to repress it, there is a part of me, deep, deep down, that doesn't care what she has to do to survive. This scares me to death; if I can't control it, in a life-or-death situation, I may end up taking someone's life. I cannot afford to do so.

Eventually, exhaustion wins over my sorrow and I drift to sleep.


	7. Chapter VII

_Beetee tenderly places his hands under my knees and shoulders, lifting me in his arms with ease and laying me on his bed. He stretches out beside me and wraps his arms around me; his bare chest is pressed against my breasts, his fingernails lightly scratch my back, and his dark eyes are bright with desire and love for me. He inclines his head so that his lips touch mine; his kiss is warm, feverish, needy. I respond eagerly, passionately, wrapping my arms around him so that our bodies are as close as possible and perfectly aligned. Beetee's mouth is at my neck, his tongue tracing the line of my collarbone; I close my eyes before laughing in surprise as he grips my waist and rolls onto his back, positioning me on top of him. He lies underneath me, his hands on my hips; I grasp his shoulders for dear life, my fingernails digging in, and when I'm unable to control my voice, I begin to moan in passionate ecstasy...and each cry sounds exactly like a fist knocking on a door._

"Wiress! Wiress, are you in there? It's time for dinner!" calls Marcelle.

I sit up and flush furiously upon assessing my physical state: my hair is a rumpled mess, I'm drenched in sweat, and every inch of my skin is hypersensitive, hot, and prickly. I definitely don't want Marcelle—or anyone, for that matter—to see me this way. Besides, I don't want to talk to Marcelle. Not after training today. It may seem immature of me to be angry at him for choosing Dextra's alliance over me, especially when I consider that I don't plan on living past the bloodbath anyway, but the knowledge that Marcelle values me over three complete strangers would have been comforting. Instead, he turned his back without a second thought and is going to help bring about the deaths of scared, innocent children according to Dextra's sick plan. No one in their right mind would want that, and if Marcelle does, I'm completely obligated to be angry with him. I don't answer him and instead slip into the bathroom and undress for a shower. I took one this morning, and two showers a day _does _seem a bit excessive, but I feel too hot, uneasy, and sweaty to ever be comfortable enough to fall asleep again. Besides, sleep—real sleep, not the lustful-dream-filled sleep that overtook me earlier—is something I need for training. I am going to die in the bloodbath—I have to make sure of that so that my death is quick and painless—but I don't want anyone to know that I'm dying on purpose. My family will be safe that way; many a tribute, and a few from my district, in fact, have chosen their own method of dying and their loved ones paid the price with a violent and painful execution. Punishing my family with a gory death scene will be bad enough, but punishing them from the grave would be worse.

After I wash off, brush my hair and teeth—once again, my stomach is in too many knots to properly hold food, so anything I consume will be promptly thrown back up—and am in a clean nightgown, I crawl back into bed despite the early hour. When I try to go to sleep, however, I find myself unable to do so. Beetee creeps into my mind once more, filling my head, but this time, instead of the erotic dream I had about him earlier, I'm thinking of his rejection. He knows...he knows I love him, and he cruelly turned his back and left without a single word. What's more, he doesn't _want _me to love him; he wants to use me like a cheap whore before sending me off into the arena. Surely a man like him has no romantic relationships. One-night stands are his only way of getting sex. Maybe he has a fetish for teenage girls, especially lonely, scared, vulnerable teenage girls, like the Peacekeepers back home who occasionally pay a young woman extravagantly for a few nights of twisted intercourse—though that has always seemed to me a show of power than anything else.

But then I remember something else. Beetee doesn't like it when _I _come onto _him_. He retreats from my kisses, from my touches, from any physical act of affection I make. If he wants me for sexual purposes, surely he would take from me gladly what I, admittedly, would not deny. He seems to not _want _to want me. It's almost as if he's _ashamed_ of wanting me. But this doesn't make sense. If he's the narcissistic pedophile—though a young woman aged seventeen can hardly be called a child—that I've made him out to be, he shouldn't be _capable _of feeling shame; at least, not shame from wanting me. He should feel completely at ease. My mind struggles to sort this out. Maybe...maybe this _isn't _a regular thing for him. Maybe he_doesn't _try to sleep with every female tribute. Maybe...maybe...

Another possibility spurs forth, one that takes me aback.

Could Beetee love me, too?

I've speculated this time and again, but I've never been capable of coming up with a decent answer. I try to find one now.

If Beetee loves me, why would he continuously spur my advances? That question isn't difficult to answer; as I realized during the Tribute Parade, if he loved me, he would not want me to give myself to him for the sheer purpose of losing my virginity. But wouldn't he confess his love for me upon hearing of my love for him? If he knows I love him, why would he not tell me he feels the same?

Is it because he knows that I'm going to die? Statistically—not factoring in strategy, strengths, or simply Career versus non-Career—each tribute has approximately a four percent chance of coming out of the arena alive. No one knows that I have no intention of even trying to survive, but even so, the odds are not in my favor. Maybe Beetee knows this and he doesn't want to get hurt. Maybe he knows that if I know he loves me, I'll try to win, and I'll be killed gorily in the process of a stupid, blinded-by-love stunt. Maybe he's ashamed of loving me simply because of my age. Maybe, maybe, maybe...Beetee's true intentions are nothing more to me than "maybes." Here's a good one: maybe if I keep trying to psychoanalyze him, I'll go insane. Wouldn't _that _be fun.

Here's another good maybe: maybe I should simply go _talk _to him and understand his perspective. It would ease my troubled mind at the very least.

My eyes dart to the clock reading seven-thirty. Dinner ought to be finished by now, so I slip on my worn shoes and walk out of my room, closing the door behind me. There are two doors with the word _Mentor _written across in block letters, and one of them is open. I poke my head in; my nose wrinkles at the unpleasant smell of liquor, so I decide that the other room must belong to Beetee. I open his door and discover that his room is empty. Deciding he's either still eating or with Marcelle, I seat myself at his desk to wait for him. He has quite a few pieces of paper strewn about, some containing sketches, a few others listing formulas that I can hardly read due to the poor penmanship. I focus back on the sketches. Most of them seem to be of machines, drawn complexly and intricately; despite my knowledge in mechanics, I don't understand them, but most appear to be of some sort of fishing rod. I find a spiral notebook and discover that it's filled with even more sketches; fascinated, I go through them, and then I hear a door open.

Startled, I throw the book down, sending papers flying, and glance toward the source of the sound: the bathroom door, which I didn't realize was closed. Standing in the doorway naked but for the towel swathed around his hips is Beetee.

My eyes widen, and though I tell myself that the decent thing to do would be to look away, I can't help but stare. I look at his face, at his arms, his hands, one of which runs idly through his mop of wet hair. I stare in longing at the strong lines of his throat, of his chest, even of his long legs. Though he isn't wearing his glasses and seems almost blind without them, when Beetee looks up, he does a double-take and backs into the wall upon seeing me. His face turns crimson; mine is no doubt blushing even darker.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yells, his grip on his towel so hard his knuckles are white.

"I want to talk to you," I say, though it's a struggle to keep my eyes on his face with so much of his bare skin exposed. "I...I didn't know you were in the shower; I didn't hear the water running..."

"I was in the bathtub," Beetee replies, glowering. He hurries back into the bathroom and slams the door; after a moment, he comes back out, having donned on his pants. He's still naked from the waist up, though, and in spite of my internal battle to remain calm and collected, his bare chest, still glistening with moisture, is what consumes most of my attention. Beetee puts the towel around his neck over his face and wipes it with a sigh; then he proceeds to dry his hair with it, sitting on the bed and asking in an irritable tone, "Now, what did you want?"

"I want to talk to you," I repeat, forcing my eyes on his again as he puts on his glasses and pulls a T-shirt over his head. I'm slightly relieved; now I can concentrate. I gaze firmly into his eyes and say in a matter-of-fact voice, "I love you."

Beetee's face spasms with what appears to be pain. He quickly reconverts his expression into one of stoicism, but I still see the pain before he's able to cover it. "Is that all you wanted to say?" he asks.

"No," I reply, determined to stay patient. "I don't know how you feel about me, but I want you to know that I love you. I know that I probably don't have much longer to live"—and once again, his face seems to contort in pain—"and that you'd be setting yourself up for disaster by loving me, and I know that you may think I'm too young for you, and I know that you may be afraid of reciprocating my love because of something that may have happened during your Games or of causing me to get hurt, but you should know that you shouldn't be afraid of loving me, because even if it's only for a short while, love is a good thing."

Beetee's expression is, as usual, unreadable. The glint of the lamplight on his glasses renders his eyes impossible to read as well. "You certainly have thought this over extensively," he finally says.

I nod, trying not to let my disappointment at his lack of a real response show.

"Now, is that all?" he continues.

I glare at him, my patience ebbing away. _"__No," _I repeat. "I want to know whether or not you love me, Beetee."

Silence. His eyes are wide and filled with shock. Impatiently, he pushes his slipping glasses up his nose and replies in a curt tone, "I don't believe I even gave you permission to be in here, Wiress. If you would, I'd like you to leave. Now."

"Dammit, Beetee, I want an answer!"

"I told you to get out once. Don't make me ask again."

"You asshole!"

"Get out, Wiress!"

By this time, he's at the door, has wrenched it open, and is trying to force me out of it, but I refuse to be shoved aside again. "When will you get it through your thick skull that I love you?" I shout.

"Will you let it go already?" he retorts.

"No! I love you, Beetee!"

"Well, you shouldn't!"

My eyes widen. This new response is not one I expected. Beetee purses his lips and says peevishly, "If I have to ask you to leave one more time, I will call security. And I know your relationship with Peacekeepers is not a good one."

It's this, the comment about my mother's death, that finally undoes me. I burst into tears; blinded, I do the one thing I can to debilitate him. Gripping his shoulders, I bring my knee up as hard as I can between his legs; then I turn and run back to my own room, my hands over my ears so that I'm deaf to his groans of pain. Once in the safety of my room, I slam the door and throw myself onto the bed, weeping.

_At least nothing can get any worse_, is my last conscious thought before I, for the second night in a row, cry myself to sleep.

* * *

As soon as we enter the training area, Marcelle spots Dextra and waves. She perks up, glowing with happiness to the tips of her striped hair, and waves back enthusiastically. Near her I see Hollen and Seymour, her loyal companions, messing with some bandages; they're at the healing station.

Marcelle practically runs to the little trio and the four of them begin talking animatedly, probably about who they're going to kill first and how. I narrow my eyes in distaste and try to eradicate the emptiness in my chest.

I decide to try the bow and arrow again, despite the disaster that happened…it couldn't have been only yesterday. It seems that the nights I spend in tears last eight years instead of eight hours, because each new day seems a million years away from the previous. I'm relieved that the archery station is completely empty when I find it.

I pick up the smallest bow and discover, to my dismay, that I can barely lift it. Nevertheless, I take an arrow and load the bow, aiming for the red bull's-eye on the target, which looks sickeningly like the outline of a person. I squeeze my eyes shut and let go of the string. I open my eyes—the Career who made a fool of me yesterday ducks to the ground as the arrow a shot flies over his head and lodges itself into the wall where the boy's head was a mere second earlier.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he screams, getting to his feet.

Everyone falls silent and turns to stare at the pair of us.

"You could've killed me!" he continues, still screaming—his voice is louder in the silence.

Tears sting my eyes and I try to blink them away, but they roll down my cheeks. _Why can't I do anything right? _

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so, so sorry…"

Everyone is staring at me, but instead of the laughter of yesterday, they only look at me scornfully. I wish they'd laugh, or better yet, just ignore me.

I drop the bow, still murmuring incoherent apologies.

The girl from District 10 returns—I didn't even know she left—with the Head Gamemaker. The tribute looks at me apologetically and the Head Gamemaker comes over to me. He lifts my chin so that he can look into my eyes, but I pull away and fix my gaze instead to my worn shoes.

"You cannot," he says quietly, chastising me as if I'm only a child, "attack another tribute outside of the arena. It's not allowed."

I look at the archery instructor. She saw me shoot—she knows I had my eyes closed, that I didn't mean to attack anyone!—but of course she doesn't say a word in my defense.

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

The Head Gamemaker smiles and pats my shoulder; then he turns on his heel and leaves the room. I follow him out.

* * *

I sit on the edge of the roof with my knees brought up against my chest and my arms around them, tears running silently down my cheeks. I hear footsteps, but I don't turn around. I clench my teeth and my uninvited guest clicks his tongue.

"You know, I don't think we've ever had a tribute give up on the second day." I twist my body so that I'm facing him and my knees are folded underneath me. I scowl.

"And before lunch, too," Beetee continues. "I think you're setting a record."

I stand up and am surprised that I'm not shaking. I'm not scared at all—just angry.

"Why," I demand, "are you here?"

"I could be asking you the same question, Wiress," Beetee says coolly.

"You were right when you said that I'm giving up," I say, ignoring his comment. "I'm done. I can't do it. I'm not going to. I would've thrown myself off the damn roof if it wasn't for the freaking force field."

"Don't talk like that," he replies, his voice losing temporarily losing its cynical, scornful quality and leaving nothing behind but yearning. It makes my heart ache. "I wish you'd stop talking like you've given up."

"I have!" I shout. "I'm sick of it! I'm not a pawn! I'll do whatever I want! I _hate _the Hunger Games—they're ruining my life! I'm so confused and scared, and angry—"

"Who wouldn't be angry?" Beetee retorts.

I glare at him. "You're the _reason _I'm so confused and angry!"

He laughs bitterly. "_I'm _making _you _angry?"

"Yes!"

"How are you the victim here?" he challenges.

"_I'm _the one who's going to die in less than a week!" I yell.

"You act is if I wasn't in your situation before," he counters. "You act as if you're the first tribute who's going to die."

"See? I _am _going to die—everyone thinks it, even Marcelle!"

"I don't want you to die, okay? So stop saying that!" he yells.

I stare at him for what seems like the longest time. Beetee sighs and looks at the sky, at the ground—just not at me. I remember what he said last night; that I shouldn't love him. But once again, he didn't give me a clear answer as to whether _he _loves _me _or not. Looking at his face, at his eyes that burn with emotion, at his shaking hands, the answer becomes suddenly clear.

"I don't know why," Beetee continues, trying to keep his voice from shaking like his hands, "I care so much about you, alright? You're driving me insane. I wish you'd just leave me be."

"You want _me_ to leave _you_ be. You want _me _to leave _you _be?" I start laughing.

"What's so funny?"  
"You! No, not you—just your excuse. It's so funny I want to laugh. Do you want to know why?"

"Tell me," he demands, but I only smile in response to his anger.

"Just admit it, Beetee. You're only angry because I've pieced you together like a puzzle. You don't hate me. You don't think me as another tribute, and you most certainly aren't some kind of pedophile. You, Beetee, are in love with me."

He blinks rapidly but doesn't respond, which only makes me smile more.

"Every time I've brought up my love for you, you've cleverly avoided telling me whether or not you feel the same. You've ordered me out of your room, tried to make me feel as if I shouldn't love you, but not once have you told me that you didn't feel the same. As soon as I believe that you don't love me, I will leave you alone and try to forget about you, though I should mention that I probably won't be able to simply forget after how profoundly you've affected me in such a short time."

"I..." Beetee exhales. "We shouldn't be having this conversation; you should be in training—"

"See?" I interrupt. "_That_, Beetee, is _exactly _what I'm talking about! I'm tired of playing games. I want to hear you say it now, right now. Tell me you love me. If you don't, tell me you don't in a way that I'll believe.

"You think that we're not possible. You think that it doesn't matter that I love you and you love me—the Capitol would never, ever allow a relationship between a mentor and a tribute. And I'm too young, aren't I?" I laugh. "I grew up a long time ago. I grew up the day my mother died. So I might seem like an adolescent girl, but just like you, dear Beetee, I'm much more than I seem. I don't care about the eight-year difference; I read a book where a seventeen-year-old girl and a forty-two-year-old man fell in love and were married."

"She was a fool and so was he," Beetee mutters.

"And the funny thing is that's exactly what he said when she said that she loved him. He said she was only a child—just like you say about me, or at least think—but he realized he loved her in time. They were lovers for months and were eventually married."

Beetee is speechless. I smile and take a few steps forward until our toes are touching. Beetee looks at the ground, but I lift his chin so that I can look into his eyes.

"It all comes down to this, doesn't it?" I ask quietly.

I can almost see the battle going on inside his head. He loves me. He shouldn't love me. He wants to love me. He's afraid he'll get hurt. He's afraid _I'll _get hurt...I tilt my head to one side, just waiting for some kind of response.

Beetee closes his eyes and shakes his head. He takes a step away from me.

_No, _I think. _No, no, not again. You're not doing this to me again, Beetee!_

I take a step forward and take his face in my hands. He's not much taller than me, which isn't unusual for District 3. Beetee looks at me tortuously.

"Please don't do this to me, Wiress," he murmurs. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm not doing anything to you," I whisper back with no idea why we're talking so quietly. "I can read you like a book just by looking into your eyes. You love me. It burns in your eyes like fire. I need your kind of fire or else I'm just going to freeze up, because without you I'm all alone."

"You don't need me," he replies softly. "You just think you do because you want things you can't have."  
"You said that you wanted something you couldn't have, too. The night of the reaping. And I finally figured out what you meant—you were talking about me. Weren't you?"

Beetee nods, closing his eyes.

"But there's no reason you can't have me," I whisper. "There's no reason at all, if you love me and I love you. Love me the way I know you want to, because I have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

Beetee shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs, more to himself than to me, "no, I can't…"

I cross my arms. "If you're going to deny that we have something," I say coldly, "then there's no reason for me to be here."

I push him aside and leave.


	8. Chapter VIII

I don't want to go back to training, but I need something to focus on other than my current…situation. So after I spend the meal break pushing food around my plate with my fork, I slip back into the room, trying to go unnoticed. This doesn't work, however; the minute I enter the gymnasium, all eyes are on me.

I'm uncomfortably aware of their stares as I tie knots under the watchful eye of the instructor. My fingers are long, thin, and quick, so I grasp some snares very easily. I politely but coolly get up to leave when he tries to teach me how to make a noose, however.

I only go to stations where there are no other tributes, which are few and far between. I've noticed a lot of tributes are packed into groups, which I figure are alliances. I see the girl from District 11 alone at the healing station after an hour or so, so I decide to talk to her.

"Hi," I say, kneeling next to her.

I notice her face is red and blotchy and she sniffs, "Hi."

"Are you alright?"

The girl shakes her head. "First Elli, now me," she whimpers to herself.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

The girl wipes her eyes ineffectually and says, "I'm Janine. My sister Elli was reaped eight years ago, and now me…" She sniffs again. "I think someone from your district won that year. Are you from District Three?"

I nod.

"Yes, someone from District Three won that year. One of your mentors…the one with the glasses…"

"Beetee," I say quietly. He seems to be coming up everywhere today.

Janine nods. "Yeah, him. He won that year. I remember his district partner pulled Elli out of the bloodbath, because one of the Careers stabbed her in the stomach—Lizah. Yeah, that was her name. She held Elli's hand and told her that she'd be okay. And then…Elli just died. I cried when Lizah got killed, almost as much as I did when Elli was killed…" Janine sniffles again.

"What…" I almost don't want to ask. "What happened to the girl? Lizah?"

"The girl from District Five pushed a pillar on her."

I gasp. "A _pillar_?"

"Yes," says Janine, looking like she's going to cry again.

I stand up. "I have to go," I say.

Janine seems sad to see me leave. "Are you sure?"

I nod, turning and walking away.

Miraculously, the living room is empty when I hurry in, sliding to a stop in front of the massive television. I immediately see a huge bin with tapes stacked in it. I rush over and kneel in front of it, pulling out tape after tape until I found what the one I'm looking for:

38th Hunger Games

Winner: Beetee Jarvis

I hesitate before putting it in the VCR. It's almost as if I'm invading Beetee's privacy. But I remember how angry at him I am, and a reckless daring overcomes my reluctance; I push the tape in.

I sit on the couch, curled like a cat, watching.

Beetee doesn't seem like a contender at first. Not at all; he's too awkward and introverted. The only one he'll talk to is the girl from his district, Lizah. She's pretty, with a long dark braid running down her back. She's almost the opposite of Beetee; she's always smiling, while he seems eternally engrossed with something in his head.

Lizah's training score is a six. Beetee gets a four. During the interview with Caesar Flickerman, Lizah is more at ease than Beetee; he seems really uncomfortable, and he won't speak clearly. He's like the man I know, but he's different, too. The man I know is colder.

When the Games start, I see the scene Janine described. It hurts to watch as Lizah cradles the twelve-year-old girl in her arms, whispering to her as she dies.

I hear footsteps and immediately look for the remote to turn off the television; I feel as if I shouldn't be here. Beetee leans against the doorframe.

"You missed dinner," he says indifferently. His dark eyes flicker to the television and cloud over. "Why are you watching this?" he demands.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, looking at the floor. "I met the girl from District Eleven, and she said her sister was in these Games…"

"Elli," he says in a strange voice.

I rewind to the part where Lizah is holding Elli during the last moments of the latter's life. "Did you know her?" I ask, pausing the tape and pointing at Lizah.

"Of course I did," he says in that strange voice. "Lizah. Yes, I knew her."

"Janine said someone pushed a pillar on her…"

"I know," he replies, his voice hardening.

I press play, but Beetee strides over and takes the remote from my hands. He turns the television off.

"Why did you do that?" I ask.

"I had to live through that hell once," he snaps. "Why would I want to watch it again?"

"_I_ was watching it…"

"You aren't anymore."

I take his hand as he turns to leave and yank him next to me. "I need to talk to you."

Beetee pulls his hand away. "I have nothing to say to you."

"But I have more to say to you," I reply with a sigh. "Beetee, I still don't see why you won't just admit that we belong together..."

"That's because we don't," he interrupts. "By some unfortunate coincidence, you've fallen in love with me, and there's nothing I can do about it. You're too young for me. You have, counting today, three days left to live. There is no possibility for any kind of relationship—not that there would have been even if you _hadn't _been reaped. So why bother?"

"Why not make what might be the last days of my life wonderful?" I ask softly.

"Because I'm incapable of doing anything right," he retorts. Something in his resolve softens. "I...I've hurt you, Wiress. Time and again, I've hurt you. And...I hate myself for hurting you...because..."

"Because why?" I whisper, leaning in. I need to hear him say it.

"Wiress," he sighs, "it doesn't matter what I feel, the fact is that—"

I interrupt what will undoubtedly be a long counterargument by kissing him on the mouth.

At first, Beetee is unresponsive, so I timidly back away slightly, but suddenly, he grabs me by the waist and pulls me in for another kiss with a low moan in his throat. I respond eagerly, wrapping my arms around his neck, twining my fingers in his hair. I lightly rake my fingernails against his scalp, and he groans.

"I love you," Beetee finally whispers between kisses. "I love you, Wiress. You've wanted to hear me say it, haven't you? Well, here it is. I love you so much I can barely take it."

Feverishly, I press another kiss on his mouth. His hands gently squeeze my hips, my thighs, and I'm unable to suppress a moan of pleasure. Beetee smiles into our kiss before breaking it off to press his warm lips to the hollow of my neck.

"Wiress," he murmurs huskily, "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I can't fight you off anymore. I swore I would never let this happen. Not with you. Not with someone so young, so sweet, so innocent. I'm not innocent, Wiress. I'm as evil as a man can be, and I'm afraid I'm going to corrupt you, but I'm too weak to fight you off anymore."

"No," I correct, my voice a whisper. "Not fighting me off doesn't make you weak. It makes you strong that you realize there's no need to."

Beetee pulls away, still holding me, and looks longingly at my face. "Wiress," he says, "you are the best thing that's happened to me in years. I love you, but...I don't deserve you."

Snuggling closer in his arms, I ask, "How?"

His fingers begin to play with my hair. "Wiress," he murmurs, "as I've said, you're young, sweet, innocent, beautiful...I don't deserve someone like that. Rather, _you _deserve someone so much better than _me_. I'm...I'm broken, Wiress. I'm a broken man. But you deserve someone whole."

"But I'm not whole either," I counter, gently caressing his cheek with my fingertips. "I'm not. But maybe we can be whole together."

Softly, Beetee takes my face in his hands and kisses me again. His lips travel from my face to my throat; he gently nips at my collarbone, making me jump a little from pleasure instead of pain. "Do you trust me, Wiress?" he whispers against my skin.

"More than anything," I murmur, closing my eyes.

To my slight surprise, Beetee puts one hand on the small of my back and the other beneath my thighs, picking me up. I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck, blushing upon realizing how many times I've fantasized about him carrying me. I nuzzle his throat with my nose, smiling into his skin as he jumps a little when I place a kiss there. As I take in what is really happening, my heart begins to pound wildly; as I bury my face in Beetee's neck, I can feel his heart beating just as loudly.

"Do you still want me, Wiress?" Beetee whispers against my ear.

"More than anything," I say again.

Looking around first to make sure no one is watching, Beetee then carries me to his room. My lips travel over his face and neck, any inhibitions that remain melting away like ice. The metaphor is perfect because Beetee _is _my fire. Now that we're together, there's nothing we can't do.

Nothing at all.

* * *

"You need to leave."

"Just a few more minutes. Please?"

"You said that almost half an hour ago. You need to leave now."

"But I don't want to. Please let me stay a little while longer. Please?"

"Wiress..."

"Is that a yes?"

"You're impossible."

"That means yes. Yay."

"Wiress." Beetee sighs.

We've spent the past thirty minutes or so sleepily arguing about when I need to leave his room and return to my own to quell everyone's suspicions. I lie in his arms beneath the blankets, my face buried in his throat. The strong, steady beat of his heart is an ambivalent sound for me; simply knowing that Beetee is alive fills me with a happiness I'm still unable to explain entirely, but the beating of his heart is a sad reminder of how little time my own heart has to beat. Today is my training session with the Gamemakers. Tomorrow is my interview with Caesar Flickerman. And the next day, the Games begin. I cringe just thinking about them. Before the consummation of my love for Beetee, I planned on dying in the bloodbath to keep my hands free from bloodstains. My father and sister have each other; my death would be a loss, but if they knew of my plan, I know that they would respect my decision.

Beetee, however, is a different matter entirely. Simply from context clues I've gathered from watching him and speaking with him, I know that he is a very lonely person. He doesn't have many friends. His family is either dead or otherwise absent from his life for some unknown reason. Without me, he is completely alone. How will he react when he realizes that I don't plan on living past the bloodbath?

Maybe he never has to know. Maybe I can just make it seem like an accident...I sigh softly. No, I can't do that. I have to tell him the truth. It's the least I can do. He has given me his trust and his love; the least I can do for him is to be honest.

"Wiress," says Beetee with a sigh, "you need to leave. I know you don't want to, and to be frank, I don't want you to either"—I smile slightly just thinking about him needing me, and my smirk makes him roll his eyes—"but it's already six-thirty. Breakfast is served at seven-thirty. We have to arrive at different times to keep everyone oblivious, I need to take a shower, and you should probably take one as well..."

"We still have an hour to do all of that."

"You stubborn little wench," he teases, gently tracing the contours of my spine with his fingertips. I shiver at his touch.

"I just like lying here with you, talking. It's nice."

He smiles. "I'm flattered, but you really need to leave."

"Beetee," I sigh, propping up on an elbow, "_can_ we talk?"

"We are talking," he replies, mimicking my posture. I sigh again.

"I'm being serious."

Beetee nods, his smirk fading. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

"The Games," I whisper.

His face clouds over. "Wiress...I understand that the chances of your survival are very slim, but...I don't want you to give up. I can't stand...the thought of living without you."

"You...you need me?"

"You're all I have, Wiress," he replies, stroking my cheek with the tip of one long finger. "You're all I have."

What am I supposed to say now? How am I supposed to tell him that I've already accepted my death and don't plan on trying to survive? I exhale.

"I might not live," I whisper. "I might die."

"I know," he whispers back. "Believe me, I know."

"Beetee...I can't kill anyone."

His eyes widen. He struggles to control his expression. "What do you mean?"

"It's against everything I believe in to take someone's life..."

"You aren't going to try," Beetee fills in. He doesn't seem angry. He doesn't seem sad. He just seems...disappointed. No, not disappointed. Let down. Hurt. With a sigh, Beetee sits up and begins plucking his undergarments from the floor, pulling them on with his back to me. When he's dressed in clean clothes he brought from home, he sits on the bed again; I crawl toward him, still naked, and watch him with scared eyes. "I suppose I should have expected as much," he continues, refusing to meet my gaze. "Every so often, we get a tribute who insists on dying for the sake of their morality. Becoming a murderer to some often seems a fate worse than death. If you die during the bloodbath and make it quick, your family won't have to suffer. Your father and sister have each other, right? And you'll be with your mother again. You won't suffer anymore. I guess that means that everyone will be happy..."

"Except for you," I finish, taking his hand. "Beetee, I—"

"You don't have to say it. I already know. You want to die pure. I understand. You'd rather be dead than alive with blood on your hands. I get it. I really do."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just..." Beetee looks away from me, swiping his eyes and putting on his glasses.

"You'll miss me," I murmur, touching his face.

Beetee finally looks at me, his dark eyes brimming with tears behind his glasses. "More than anything," he whispers. "I love you, Wiress. I thought that after last night, you would want to...I don't know, want to be together, like a couple, even after the Games, if you were to win. And I know you can win. You're smart. Intelligence is worth more than you think. But if you aren't even going to try..."

"Oh, Beetee," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him and cradling his head to my shoulder. This is a side of him I have not seen. He seems so vulnerable, and it touches me deeply that he trusts me enough to let go of his defenses.

Can I really quit before the Games have even begun? Can I abandon my father, my sister, my lover, the three people who love me most, simply to remain unstained? Is it right to assume that my father and sister will be content with just each other? And what about Beetee, the man I love, the man who is so distraught at the idea of my death after knowing me for less than a week that he's crying on my shoulder? I can't leave him. I can't leave my family. No matter what I have to do, I cannot abandon them. I have to try.

"Beetee," I whisper, pulling him back and cupping his face, "listen to me. I've changed my mind. Can I really say that my morality is worth more than the people who love me? I can't abandon you, or my father, or my sister. I just have to accept the fact that you three need me as much as I need you."

Beetee exhales. "I'm scared...that even if you try...you're just going to die. I'm scared you're going to leave me…"

"I can't promise I'm going to live, Beetee, and you know that. But...I'll do my best. I want to live, Beetee, but so do twenty-three other tributes."

Beetee's shaking as he whispers, "I don't want to lose you. I don't want to care about you too much, or to love you as much as I do. It'd be for my own good as well as yours if I just left you well alone. But I'm past the point of no return, aren't I?"

"We both are," I murmur into his neck. "We both are, Beetee. I shouldn't care so much either. I love you too much for my own good as well. But since we're both in this boat, does it matter if we're both sinking?"

"No," Beetee whispers. "I guess it doesn't."

"If I die," I say quietly, "I'll wait for you in heaven. If I go to hell…" I trail off.

"Then I'll burn right along side you," Beetee fills in. "That's a promise."

We kiss, tears mingling on each other's cheeks, and then Beetee wraps his arms around me and holds me like he'll never let go.


	9. Chapter IX

Breakfast is quiet, which I can't say is unusual given the tension between Marcelle and me, the tension between Rochellita, Violette, and me, and the silence between Beetee and me. I'm afraid that if we talk, we'll give ourselves away. And that's the last thing I want to happen.

Rochellita, obviously in an effort to make conversation, says, "So, Marcelle, Wiress, what do you plan to do for the Gamemakers?"

My heart sinks to my stomach. That's _today_? I could have sworn there was at least one more day of regular training.

Marcelle shrugs as if it doesn't really matter. "I don't know," he says, "maybe shoot some arrows."

This catches my attention. "You shoot arrows?" I ask.

"Yes," he retorts. "You would've known that if you went to training."

I wince.

"What about you, Wiress?" asks Rochellita.

My face grows warm and I stammer, "...I don't really know..."

"Of course you don't," snaps Violette. "You haven't gone to a full day of training! Stupid girl." She looks at Beetee harshly and my heartbeat quickens.

_She can't possibly know, can she? Can she?_

My hand grips my spoon so tightly it starts to hurt until I relax, realizing a very obvious piece of information: Violette and Beetee are both mentors. Of course she'd look to him when she criticized me, the tribute, the student. Right?

I sigh in relief, a little too loudly, and try to eat something, but I have no appetite. I leave the breakfast table and head back to my room.

I lie on Beetee's bed on my side, not sleeping, just thinking. _What can I possibly do for the Gamemakers? What am I good at?_

I think and think and _think_.

_Well, I was pretty good in school last year_, I decide.

_Oh, yes, _I argue with myself._You can solve an equation! That'll surely impress them_. _Not! Come on, Wiress, think about your strengths! What are your strengths?_

_Well..._I ponder this for a moment. _What _are _my strengths? Do I even have any?_

I think. _I'm smart. Does that count?_

_Hardly, _I counter. _T__he Gamemakers want blood and gore, not intelligence._

_Fair point, _I sigh. Hmm...

_I have Beetee, _I think. _He makes my stronger..._

I cut myself off. _That doesn't count! What can _you _do?_

"I don't know!" I shout out loud, fed up with Rochellita and Violette and schizophrenic arguments and the Hunger Games in general.

The door slides open, someone walks in, and the door closes again. The blinds are closed, so it's too dark to see who it is. I know, though, just by instinct.

"What don't you know?" asks Beetee.

"What to do for the Gamemakers," I moan. "I'm trying to focus on my strengths, but I don't have any!"

Beetee sighs and sits next to me. "You do too," he says. "You're—"

"Smart, I know. Smart isn't going to do me—"

"Any good. The Gamemakers want—"

"Blood and gore, and all I have is—"

"Intelligence."

I laugh.

"What's so funny?" Beetee asks.

"Just the way we talk. It's just…so funny, how I can read your mind. And vice versa."

Beetee chuckles once and then sighs. "So, is there anything in training you've noticed you're particularly good at?"

"Yeah," I snap. "Screwing up."

Beetee sighs again. "Anything else?"

"No," I whisper. "Nothing."

"Didn't you try using a bow and arrow?"

"Yes," I say bitterly, "and we all know how well _that _went."

"Well…" Beetee trails off. "Maybe you can…" He thinks. Then he says, "I've got nothing."

I groan. "If you can't come up with anything, I'm hopeless."

"No." Beetee shakes his head. "Don't say that. You are _not _hopeless. You're just—"

"Unable to do anything right."

"No! That's not what I was going to say."

"But you were thinking it."

"No," he says, his voice shaking, "I wasn't."

I lie back and stare at the dark ceiling, trying to think of something to do for the Gamemakers but only coming up with ways I can make something go wrong. Then I sit up and look at Beetee.

"What did you do for the Gamemakers?" I ask.

"I can't tell you," he says, not looking at me. I have a slight feeling he's lying, but I don't push the subject.

I lay my head against his shoulder but jump back when I hear a knock.

Marcelle says, "Beetee, where's Wiress?"

"Damn!" I hiss.

Beetee slaps his hand over my mouth. "I don't know," he says to Marcelle.

"Well, she isn't in her room. We have to go wait for our sessions with the Gamemakers."

"I don't know where she is," Beetee says, trying to act annoyed. "Why don't you ask Violette?"

"I did," Marcelle says coolly. "She said to ask you."

My heartbeat quickens. Was I right? _Does _Violette know?

"Can I come in?" Marcelle asks.

"No!" Beetee says quickly.

Pause. "Why not?" Marcelle asks suspiciously.

I elbow Beetee's shoulder. _Think of a reason! _I scream silently, hoping he can read my expression accurately.

"Go ask Rochellita where Wiress is," Beetee says after a moment.

"Why would she know?"

"Why would _I _know?" Beetee snaps. "I'm not her babysitter."

"Sorry," says Marcelle coldly after a minute.

I hear footsteps walking away. I sigh in relief.

"Now go," says Beetee quickly.

I pull my shoes on and open the door silently, closing it just as quickly and walking down the hallway nonchalantly. Suddenly, someone grabs my arm.

"I knew it!" says Marcelle. I try to pull away from his grasp, my heart beating out of my chest, but he's surprisingly strong for a twelve-year-old. "Why were you in there?"

I can't think of a good reason so I keep my mouth shut tight. Marcelle marches back to Beetee's door with my arm still in his iron grip and knocks on the door. "Beetee, open the door!"

"I told you, I don't know where Wiress is," Beetee says.

"Then why was she in your room?"

Silence.

Marcelle opens the door and pulls me through it as well. He pushes me to Beetee's side and closes the door again.

"What's going on here?" Marcelle asks angrily. "Dammit, I want some answers."

Suddenly, he seems a lot older than twelve.

Beetee crosses his arms. "Nothing is"—he uses the universal sign for air quotes for his next words—"going on here. She needed help figuring out what to do for the Gamemakers."

"Then why did you lie about it?" Marcelle demands.

"I didn't want you to know that I didn't know what to do," I say, pleased with the truthful-sounding lie.

"I already know," Marcelle says coldly. "You said it at breakfast."

My façade comes crashing down. "I forgot?" Uncertainty makes my statement a question, thus sealing my fate. And Beetee's.

"Uh-huh," says Marcelle sarcastically. "You forgot."

I look anxiously at Beetee.

Marcelle glares at the pair of us. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but let me get one thing straight. I don't take kindly to be lied to. If there's something I need to know, spill it now, because if I have to find out on my own, you better be sure that Rochellita and Violette will know as well. I don't give a damn about you, Wiress," he says to me. He turns to Beetee. "And while I'm at it, fuck you too. You think I need your help?" Marcelle laughs darkly, a strange sound for him. "I don't," he says, shaking with rage, his hands clenched into fists. "I don't need _anyone_. So just leave me the hell alone, and stop pretending like I can't understand because I'm twelve. I grew up a long time ago. Tell me what's going on here, _now_."

I stare at him in shock. This can't be Marcelle—the same boy that was crying his eyes out just four days ago?

I don't know him nearly as well as I think I do.

"You aren't in any position to make demands, Marcelle," Beetee counters.

"Oh, yeah?" Marcelle says furiously. He raises his fists in front of his face. "Bring it on."

"No!" I yell. I wrap my arms around Beetee's chest but he pulls away quickly. I watch in horror as Beetee punches Marcelle in the face. Marcelle falls to the ground, his mouth bleeding, but stands back up in a heartbeat, runs behind Beetee and leaps onto his back, wrapping his arms around Beetee's throat. Beetee sinks to his knees, trying to throw Marcelle off of him, but Marcelle's a lot stronger than he looks. Beetee gasps for air.

"No!" I yell again. I run behind Marcelle and wrap my arms around his waist, trying to pull him away, but Marcelle won't let go. He kicks me in the stomach and I fall to the ground, tears stinging my eyes from the sudden pain.

Marcelle lets Beetee go and Beetee's hands fly to his neck, massaging his throat and gasping. Beetee's relief is short-lived—Marcelle tackles him to the floor so that he's on top of Beetee and punches him in the mouth. I get to my feet and lunge at Marcelle, but Marcelle twists around, grabs my arm, and bends it behind my back until I think it's going to break. I cry out in pain and Beetee stands up, wipes the blood from his mouth, and grabs Marcelle, pulling him away from me and throwing him to the ground. I back away to the corner, cowering in fear as Marcelle stands up and punches Beetee in the face again. I do the only thing I can—I scream. It's probably not very mature, but there's no way I can split them up without injuring myself, so I need to get someone here that _can _stop them.

I scream and scream and Marcelle and Beetee keep punching and kicking each other. Soon the door flies open and Rochellita and Violette stare at the scene before them in shock. I stop screaming, leap to my feet, and shout, "Don't just stand there—do something!"

Rochellita scurries off and Violette stands there, watching in amusement. I watch in terror. You'd think Beetee would have the upper hand, being more than twice Marcelle's age, but Marcelle is a lot stronger than he looks. I don't think—minus right now—Beetee's ever punched a soul, but from the way he moves, Marcelle probably does this kind of thing all the time. One more thing I never knew.

Rochellita comes back with two men in uniform—Peacekeepers. I shudder involuntarily; as Beetee said the other day, my relationship with Peacekeepers is not a good one. One of the guards grabs Marcelle from behind—the other gets Beetee—and they pull them away from each other, both of them bleeding and gasping for air. I glance from Marcelle to Beetee in shock. _How did this even happen?_

"What," Rochellita demands, "is going on here?"

Neither Beetee nor Marcelle says a word—they both simply stare at her, and glare at each other.

Rochellita's sharp gaze snaps to me. "Well?" she asks imperiously.

I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

_"__Well?"_ she repeats.

"Well," I say shakily, still recovering, "Marcelle came here, and asked where I was, and..."

I can't go on. There's nothing I can say without incriminating Beetee. I close my mouth and stare at the floor.

_"Well?"_ Rochellita glares at me.

I raise my face and stare into her cold eyes. "It's just what you saw," I reply. "Beetee and Marcelle got into a fight, and I couldn't stop them."

"Yes, but _why _did they start fighting?" demands Rochellita.

I shrug.

Rochellita groans and tells the Peacekeeper holding Marcelle to release him. "Go clean up," she snaps, "and go to the wait outside the gymnasium. _You_," she continues, looking at me, "go with Marcelle when he's finished. Help him clean his face. And _you_," she says nastily, turning to Beetee, "wait here for me. And get the blood off your face."

With that, we all turn to our designated areas. I follow Marcelle to his room.

* * *

Marcelle gingerly takes a towel and wipes the blood off of his face, spitting some out into the sink in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, watching him anxiously. If it was my choice, I'd be with Beetee, not Marcelle, but unfortunately, it's not my choice.

Marcelle winces as he takes a cotton ball, soaks it in a clear liquid, and wipes it over a cut on his cheek. Then he puts a bandage over the cut, pausing only to turn and glare at me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.

He simply glares at me. "You do know that we're not done, right?"

"What do you mean?"

Marcelle dries off his face, which, other than a black eye and a cut on his cheek, isn't too bad. I cringe inwardly, thinking of Beetee. Then he leaves the bathroom. I follow him.

"Marcelle, what do you mean?" I ask.

He turns to me, glowering. "I still want to know what's going on between you and Beetee." He says Beetee's name like it's poison in his mouth.

"It's nothing," I say. "I needed his help and was too scared to go to Violette. Honestly, would _you _go to her?"

Marcelle brushes this off. "Just stay away from him," he says.

I gape at him. "You can't tell me what to do!"

"I just did," Marcelle snaps. "Deal with it."

Marcelle turns on his heel and leaves to go wait for his session with the Gamemakers without me. I shout, "Who needs you, anyway?" and turn in the opposite direction, heading for Beetee's room—surely Rochellita is done chewing him out by now.

I see her come out of the room, however, and unfortunately, she sees me too. "Why are you here?" she snaps. "I told you to go help Marcelle and then go wait for your training session with the Gamemakers."

The truth never hurts—well, parts of it anyway—so that's what I tell. "I was concerned about Beetee," I say innocently. "I wanted to make sure he's okay, after seeing Marcelle."

"He's fine," she growls, "so go."

"Are you sure?" I ask. I fear I might give myself away by being so persistent, but I really need to make sure he's not injured too badly.

"Yes," she snaps. _"Go."_

I stand my ground. "I want to see him."

"You'll see him at dinner. Don't make me tell you to leave one last time."

I glare at her. "Fine," I say coldly, turning on my heel and leaving.

* * *

To my horror, I'm late; the girl from District 2 is already halfway through her session. This means that it's only Marcelle, then _me_. I tap my fingers anxiously against the side of the bench.

After a minute, a bell dings, and a booming voice yells, "Marcelle du Vaal!"

Marcelle stands and walks into the room without giving me a second glance. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, trembling and rocking.

_What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do? _I chant to myself frantically.

After almost fifteen minutes, I still have nothing.

Then, a bell goes off in my head—or maybe it's the bell signaling the end of Marcelle's session. It doesn't matter—I have a plan.

"Wiress MacDanielle!" booms the voice.

I stand up, no longer trembling, and walk into the room usually occupied by twenty-three other tributes. Right now, however, it's just me and the Gamemakers, who are busy eating, drinking, and not paying attention to me. I smile to myself.

_Let the games begin_.

I scurry to the healing station and procure a dummy about my size; with some effort, I drag it to the middle of the floor. Then I go to the camouflage station and take all of the black paint; I use a knife to cut the feathers off of almost three quivers of arrows and dip them in the paint, dying them black. I'd like to wait for them to dry, but I won't have time. I take the painted feathers and scatter them on the dummy's head, forming a tumble of hair. Keeping the knife in hand, I return to the camouflage station and find a jar of red paint; I hurry back to my dummy, anxious about the time ticking away, and slit its wrists with the knife. I use the red paint to color the wounds red, signifying blood. Then I swipe my fingers over the blood and use them to paint eight words on the floor in front of the dummy. Tucking the knife beneath the dummy's hand, I step back and let the Gamemakers admire my handiwork:

WIRESS MACDANIELLE

VICTOR OF THE 46th HUNGER GAMES

One of the Gamemakers starts choking on wine. All of them appear flabbergasted as they read the words I've written and taken in their implication.

"You may go," the Head Gamemaker chokes after the bell rings.

I smile and turn to leave.


	10. Chapter X

"So," asks Rochellita at dinner, "how did your sessions go?"

Marcelle shrugs. "Fine," he says. "I shot some arrows, like I said I would."

"Very good," says Violette. "There's nothing wrong with doing something simple if you do it right."

"What did _you _do?" Rochellita says icily, turning to me.

"Um…" I trail off, thinking _Should I tell them? _

_Well, _I decide, _the damage is already done._

"I took a dummy and slits its wrists," I say.

"Good," says Beetee absently.

"I painted its arms with red so that it looked like blood."

Beetee takes a sip of his water and I spit the rest of the words out:

"And I painted my name on the floor next to it."

Predictably, Beetee starts choking. Violette starts slapping his back a little harder than necessary, trying to get him to stop coughing.

"You _what?_" he asks hoarsely after a few seconds.

"I killed an effigy of myself."

"Of _yourself?_" Rochellita hisses.

"Yes. I painted my name on it," I say simply. "Actually, what I wrote was 'Wiress MacDanielle, Victor of the Forty-sixth Hunger Games.'"

Beetee's face becomes very pale.

"Why?" Violette demands. "What the hell were you trying to accomplish?"

"I wanted to show that they don't have me under their thumb," I explain. "That, if I wanted to, I don't have to give them a victor."

I'm stared at as if I'm insane. "That kind of thinking...that kind of thinking is dangerous, Wiress," says Violette, her tone changing from anger to something almost like fear.

Beetee looks as if he's either going to cry, scream, or vomit—or all three.

Rochellita groans and looks at the clock hanging on the wall. Then she says, "I think the training scores are on. We'd better go watch."

Violette and Marcelle follow her to the sofa. Beetee, however, goes to his own room. I sigh, promise to talk to him later, and follow Marcelle. Once in the room, I sit in front of the sofa. Rochellita turns the television on and two colorful announcers introduce themselves and immediately get with the scoring. I swallow, wishing I didn't have to see my most likely pathetic score.

"Can they give zeros?" I ask nervously to no one in particular.

"Yes, but they never have," says Rochellita.

"First time for everything," mumbles Marcelle. I swallow again.

The District 1 boy's face flashes on the screen with a nine underneath it. The girl gets an eight. I cross my fingers.

District 2's boy gets a ten. Their girl gets a nine.

Next comes Marcelle. He gets a five.

"Good," says Violette, patting his shoulder.

My face flashes on the screen. Underneath it…

… _is a ten_.

My jaw drops and I look at Rochellita, Violette, and Marcelle, who stare at me, dumbfounded. I glance back at the TV to see District 4's boy get an eight and District 4's girl get a nine.

_I beat almost all the Careers._

I stand up shakily and mumble something about going to bed. As soon as I close the door to the room, however, I run down the hall to Beetee's room, sliding to a stop in front of his door. I go in, closing the door behind me, and say, "Ten."

"Ten what?" Beetee asks, turning on the lamp.

I walk numbly to his bed and sit next to him. "Ten. Beetee, they gave me a ten. The Gamemakers. My training score is a _ten_."

Beetee chokes back a sob. I stare at him, bewildered.

"Why would they give me such a high score?" I ask in a whisper. I don't want an answer, but Beetee gives me one anyway, tears sliding down his cheeks.

"The Careers have no choice," he whispers hollowly. "They think you're a threat. They're going to hunt you down…and kill you first."

My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

"When you painted your name…by that dummy…the Gamemakers painted a target on your back. When you…slit its wrists…the Gamemakers basically slit yours."

Suddenly, my brilliant plan seems childish and stupid.

"They didn't," I whisper. I curl up into a ball, shaking. "I did. I was stupid, I didn't think—"

"Don't say that," Beetee interrupts, but I continue anyway:

"And now I'm going to die."

"Don't—"

"It's true!' I say indignantly. "Quit telling me not to say it—I told you, I'm not a pawn! I can say and do whatever I want! If you won't accept the truth, I'll—"

"What?" Beetee whispers. "What will you do?"

I'm at a loss. "I'll…I'll…"

Beetee smiles wryly. "You can't even think of a threat. You act without thinking first—that's what happened tonight. You condemned yourself because you got ahead of yourself," he says heatedly. "And now—"

His voice just breaks. He puts his hand over his mouth, trembling and gasping. I put my hand on his shoulder, not knowing what to say.

"Go," he moans. "Please, please…go…"

"No," I say. "Yesterday you said your problem was that you cared about me too much. You were wrong. Your problem is that you underestimate how much _I _care about _you_. Right or wrong—and I'm pretty sure it's right—I love you. I wish you'd understand! You say that you love me and that you can't live without me. I need you, too. I've always loved and needed you, ever since I was eight years old. Even then, whether I knew it or not." I laugh once, but the sound his too tense. "It sounds like a really bad romance novel, but it's true. You're the only thing keeping me alive."

"That's my line," Beetee says, moving his hand out of the way and giving me a weak, watery smile.

"It's mine, too," I whisper. "You told me that if I go to hell, you'll burn with me. I want you to know that I'll do the same. Always."

Beetee puts his salty lips to mine, effectively ending this conversation.

For now, at least.

* * *

My heart beats loudly and quickly in my ears, gradually easing into a steadier rhythm. It matches Beetee's heartbeat and the gentle tune is making me very sleepy. I sit up, and Beetee does too.

"What's wrong?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I don't want to sleep."

He tilts his head to one side. "You aren't tired?"

"I am," I say, "but I don't want to sleep."

"Why not?"

"I don't have much time left. Why waste it?"

Beetee sighs. "You'll be tired when you wake up."

"That's what coffee is for."

He laughs once. "Point taken."

"You're too tired, aren't you?" I ask with a grin.

Beetee grins too, accepting my challenge, and puts his lips to mine, making my heart and breathing speed up, but causing my brain to slow down.

So when I hear a gasp, it takes me a minute to realize that Beetee did not make the sound.

I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away, then pull the blanket up higher to cover my chest. I look toward the open door fearfully. Beetee looks, too.

Marcelle.

Marcelle, Marcelle.

_Why?_

"Why are you here?" I ask, but my voice sounds anxious.

"I could ask you the same question," Marcelle snarls.

"You don't under—" I begin, but Marcelle cuts me off.

"You're right. I don't understand." He glares at Beetee and me fiercely. I'm almost afraid of him—or a minute, I forget who's twelve and who's seventeen.

"You're freaking _twenty-five!_" Marcelle fumes, directing his words at Beetee. "What kind of sick person are you to sleep with a seventeen-year-old girl?" Then he turns to me. "And you, letting him! What's wrong with _you? _He's a few years off from being twice your age! He was in grade school before you were _born!_"

Marcelle turns on his heel without waiting for a response and leaves the room, seething. I pull on my dress, not bothering with my underclothes, and run after him. I find him quickly and tackle him to the ground, pinning him to the floor.

"Get off me!" he yells, writhing underneath me, but I stay put, putting my knees on his thighs and holding his wrists with my hands.

"You have to _swear _not to tell!" I cry.

"Why should I?" Marcelle snarls.

"Please! I know you don't like Beetee, but what do you have against me?"

Marcelle pauses for a moment. I repeat my question.

"I don't have anything against you," says Marcelle in a strange voice. "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"I don't want you to have to give yourself up…the way you would have."

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't think you're going to live—I get that. But don't run around doing things you'll regret," says Marcelle.

"What are you _talking _about?" I repeat. "I'm not doing anything I'll regret."

"You were going to," he says.

"Are you talking about Beetee?"

"Yes," says Marcelle gravely. "I am."

I arch my eyebrows, confused.

"I don't think you should see him anymore. The way you have been. Don't deny it," he says, "because I know that you've slept with him before. I don't want to know the details; I just want it to stop."

"But—"

"Wiress, he's taking advantage of you. He's _raping _you."

I stare at him for a full minute.

"No," I say, almost laughing, "he's not."

Marcelle gives me a strange look—a mixture of pity and impatience.

"Wiress," he says almost gently, "when a man over the age of eighteen has sex with a girl at least three years his junior, it's called statutory rape."

"It's not rape!"

"When he's twenty-five and your seventeen, it _is _called rape. You aren't legally able to consent because—in the eyes of the Capitol and their legal system—you're still a child. If you don't consent, and he has sex with you anyway, that's rape."

"That's not true!" I say indignantly, feeling scared.

"It is," Marcelle says, gently pushing me off him and standing up. He holds out his hand I let him help me up, dazed.

"Is statutory rape," I whisper, "against the law?"

"Yes," says Marcelle calmly.

He turns on his heel and walks away. A familiar icy fear creeps up my legs and encases me in terror, just like it did when Mother was killed.

I run as quickly as possible back to Beetee's room. I don't say a word to him but instead go into his bathroom, close the door behind me, and pull my dress over my head and drop it on the floor. I kneel in front of the bathtub and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it. Then I climb in, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I turn off the water when it touches my arms and just sit in the bathtub with my chin on my knees, thinking.

I hear a knock on the door. I jump a little, even though I know it's Beetee.

"Wiress?" he asks quietly.

I don't answer. Beetee opens the door and sits on the floor in front of me.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I shiver even though the water's almost too hot.

"Wiress?"

I sigh. "Statutory rape," I whisper.

Beetee's face pales.

"I take it you know what that is."

Slowly, he nods, confirming what he probably knew all along—our relationship isn't just taboo, it's illegal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"Where," he asks calmly, "did you hear that term?"

"Marcelle."

Beetee swears under his breath. I stare at him and ask again, "Why didn't you tell me?"  
"I don't know," he murmurs. "I should have."

"Yes, you should have."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Beetee says brokenly. "I'm so sorry, Wiress. I should have told you. I should have, I should have, I just…" He trails off.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I don't care."

"Yes," he says, "you do. I can tell you're scared, just by looking at you."

"I am scared," I say quietly. "I'm scared that…now that I know…you're not going to let me see you. You're going to make me stay away from you. For my own good."

Beetee is completely silent.

"You are, aren't you?" I sob.

He nods very slowly.

"I can't!" I cry. "Why don't you understand? I need you! When I came here last night, I forgot everything that I'm normally afraid of. I pushed all of my guilt and shame to the back of my mind. I felt whole for the first time in years. And today, when I had to do the training session with the Gamemakers, I got through it only because I knew that I'd be able to come back here. I knew that I wouldn't be alone anymore."

I pause for a minute to take in Beetee's reaction. He stares at me, tears streaming silently down his face.

"I love you," I whisper. "Call me evil, call me a sinner—it's true, and it will be until the day I die, and maybe even after that, too. You didn't tell me about the illegality of…us…because you weren't concerned with being arrested. You're only concerned for me. Because I don't care, it doesn't matter. I love you and you love me—in my eyes, that makes it right. It doesn't matter what Rochellita, the Capitol, or even the whole nation of Panem thinks—as long as I'm with you, and vice versa, they can bring it on."

"You're a hopeless romantic, Wiress," he whispers, smiling a little.

"No," I correct him. "I'm just hopelessly in love with the wrong person, according to some people, and with the right person, according to myself."

"Me too," Beetee says. "Me too."

I pull the plug covering the drain and the bathwater starts rapidly receding, leaving my skin that was wet cold and prickly. I still sit in the bathtub when it's empty, shivering slightly. Beetee hands me a towel and I wrap it around myself like a blanket.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

"Yes," I admit.

He smiles a little and holds out his hand. I take it and stand up, adjusting my towel so that wraps around me starting under my arms, brushing my leg about halfway to my knee. Beetee leads me gently into the other room, turning the light off on his way out.


	11. Chapter XI

I wake up with a sigh—I really should go back to my room now. I close my eyes and savor the wonderful feeling of lying in Beetee's arms. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. Beetee is the glue that holds me together.

His slow, deep breathing confirms my suspicion that he's still asleep. I silently get out of bed and get dressed. As I zip the back of my dress, a startling possibility hits me: what if Beetee wakes up, sees me gone, and thinks I don't want to see him anymore because of the possibility he could be arrested for statutory rape? I told him that I didn't care, but what if he thinks I changed my mind?

I smack my forehead. I'll just leave a note. And here I thought I was smart!

I roam around the room as quietly as possible, looking for paper and a pen. I find both of them soon enough and sit at the desk beside Beetee's bed, thinking of what to write. Then I start scrawling...

_Dear Beetee,_

_Please don't think I left because of the statutory rape thing. I just thought I should leave as soon as possible to make sure Rochellita and Violette don't suspect anything, which they will if I show up late to breakfast again. _

_Speaking of suspicion, I'll talk to Marcelle. Don't worry about him; I can be very persuasive when I want to be. You should know._

_Don't worry about me either. I'll be fine, even with the interview with Caesar. I'll make it through somehow—I've made it through everything else!_

I put down the pen and read what I wrote. It's not literary genius, but it'll do. I smile to myself.

Then I write something else.

_I love you._

I want Beetee to know how true these three little words are. I love him and I always will. So I underline them.

_I love you._

I sign my name, fold the letter in half, and lay it on the desk. Then I slip silently out of the room.

I walk down the hall and knock on Marcelle's door. Something tells me he's awake.

Naturally, I'm right.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he says after a minute. Marcelle opens the door and sees me. He leans against the doorframe.

"What do you want?" he asks coolly.

"We need to talk," I say. "Can I come in?"

"Whatever," Marcelle says, standing aside. I cross the room and sit on his bed. Marcelle closes the door and sits next to me.

"Talk," he says.

"There's...a lot you don't understand," I begin, not looking at him. "About me and Beetee."

Marcelle opens his mouth and I continue, "You think you understand but you don't. You think that it's only about sex but you're wrong."

"It might not be just about sex to you, but to him, it probably is," says Marcelle, not looking at me either.

"No," I say, trying to be patient, "it isn't. If it was, he wouldn't have tried to make me leave him alone at first. He knew about the rape thing so for my well-being he swore to leave me alone. And he tried. I wouldn't let him ignore me, though. I talked to him, tried to get him to talk to me, and eventually, even though he knew it was wrong, he fell in love with me. And I fell in love with him too. Don't look like that," I snap when I see him sneer. "It's true! I love him and he loves me. So it's not wrong, what we're doing."

"What if he doesn't love you?" Marcelle asks in a strange voice. "What if he's lying to you?"

"Dammit, Marcelle, why can't you leave well enough alone?" I shout, standing up. "You don't know anything about love or sex or the difference between the two! You're twelve! Act like it!"

"I'm trying to help you!" Marcelle shouts back, also getting to his feet. "You aren't thinking clearly! You're making a huge mistake!"

"No, I'm not!" I yell. "Stop acting like you know me! You don't! I've been through more than you ever will! I know more suffering and more pain then I should, and I don't appreciate the fact that you're trying to take away the one thing that makes me happy!"

I turn on my heel and leave without waiting for a response.

I sit down on the floor of my room, my back against the wall, with a piece of paper and a pen in my hand. I need to write this—the goodbye to Beetee I'll never be able to say. The Games start tomorrow. I need to write this now.

After a few bad beginnings, I finally write something worth reading.

I look around for an envelope, but my search brings up another object. I run my fingers over the cool silver chrome, then go to my bathroom.

I look at my reflection. My hair hangs in ringlets to my shoulders. I take a piece and use the scissors to cut it to about my chin. I glance at the clump of dark hair in my hand, then back to my face in the mirror. My hair is exactly as it always is, except for that one missing piece.

_No turning back now._

I keep cutting my hair. The dark brown curls drop to the floor in a steady rhythm. Finally, I look up. I look the same except for my shorter hair.

I have no idea why I even cut my hair. But I lean over and pick up a smaller piece. It still feels soft. I slowly walk back into my room and locate what I was looking for: an envelope. I fold my letter in half and stick it into the envelope, then tuck the lock of my hair beside it. I seal the envelope and neatly print Beetee's name on it in capital letters. I change into the abandoned button-down dress I found the other day and leave my room, roaming the halls.

I can't give this to Beetee now. I have to wait until after the Hunger Games, when I'm dead. But who will give it to him?

An old saying comes to me: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Who is my enemy?

_The Careers and Dextra's alliance_, I think instantly, _but then I reconsider._

_No_, I realize, they're only my enemies because of the Games. Which is the Capitol's doing.

_So the Capitol is my enemy_, I decide. _And District 3 hates the Capitol._

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

_Violette is from District 3. Violette hates the Capitol. She is their enemy._

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

_Violette is the enemy of my enemy, the Capitol. So Violette is my friend. I have to trust her. She will be my messenger._

I start running and nearly tackle Marcelle.

"What are you doing?" he snarls.

"Marcelle!" I gasp. "Have you seen—?"

"I haven't seen Beetee," he says tonelessly.

"No," I say, panting for breath. "Have you seen Violette?"

"It's about time you looked for your own mentor," he mutters to himself. Then he says to me, "I haven't seen her."

"Damn!" I shout in frustration. I continue running through the corridors, looking for Violette. Then I nearly run into her.

"Watch where you're going!" she yells.

I gasp for a few seconds and then I start breathing normally.

"What?" she asks irritably.

I hold up my letter.

"I want you to give this to Beetee when the Hunger Games are over," I say. "But only as soon as their over." And I'm dead, I add in my head.

"You want me to give that letter to Beetee when the Hunger Games are over," she repeats.

"Yes," I say desperately. "Please, Violette."

She stares at me for a few moments, seeming less harsh. She almost looks sympathetic.

I put the letter—the last letter I'll ever write—into her hands.

"Can I read it?" Violette asks quietly.

"Yes," I say, surprising myself; the word I planned on saying was _no_. "But…don't show it to Rochellita. Please."

Violette nods solemnly and opens the envelope. She pulls out the lock of my hair, and to my surprise she simply puts it back. Then she pulls out the letter and begins to read it. She turns on her heel and walks away, mouthing the words I wrote.

Breakfast is a very subdued affair. I'm scared that I trusted Violette too much—what if she tells Rochellita?

If Violette really read and understood the meaning of the letter I wrote, she doesn't act like it. She simply behaves as she always does: bored, slightly drunk, and angry at everyone for no reason at all.

Rochellita doesn't even bother talking to us anymore; after a few minutes she simply leaves, and we all follow suit.

"Wiress," Violette says suddenly, "I want to talk to you."

I gulp. "What's wrong?" I ask, but my voice is too high.

"Not here," she says, turning away and walking to her room. "Follow me."

I follow with an awful sense of foreboding. Violette opens the door to her room and walks inside; I walk inside too, looking around. The smell of liquor is still evident, but it isn't as bad is it was the other day. I inspect the room closely for the first time; it's fairly plain, like the other three bedrooms I've seen, and the only decoration is an eight-by-ten framed photograph sitting on the bedside table. I look closely at it.

"Is this you?" I ask.

"No," says Violette. "That's my sister."

"I didn't know you had a sister," I say, slightly surprised.

"I do," Violette sighs. "She's my twin. Her name is Eileen."

"Eileen," I repeat. "How come she doesn't live with you?"

"Long story," she says in a strange voice.

"I've got time."

"No," Violette says, "you don't. That's why we need to talk about this"—she holds up the letter—"now."

"What about it?"

"Did you mean what you wrote?"

"Yes."

Violette sighs. "Wiress," she says slowly, "I want you to tell me what's going on. _Everything_ that's going on. Can you do that?"

I nod.

"Then hit it," says Violette, sitting on her bed. I begin pacing from one side of the room to the other, and I begin explaining.

"After the reaping when I was on the train," I say, "Beetee tried comforting me. I didn't want to like him, but I did. I let him comfort me and make me feel less hopeless. Later, at dinner, we started arguing because...well, because he was staring at me, and he was making me feel uncomfortable. So after dinner, I went to his room and demanded the reason for his sudden change of heart. He apologized. But he said something else—'You aren't the only one who wants things you can't have.' I had no idea what he meant by that. But maybe it was obvious—I definitely think it is now. So what I did next was actually kind of horrible. If I only knew what he was going through, then I wouldn't have done it. Or—and this is the worst part—maybe I would have anyway. I kissed him, and he got angry at me—as he should have. He made me leave."

I pause and take in Violette's reaction. She doesn't say a word, so I continue.

"The day of the Tribute Parade, Beetee came to see me again and said that he wanted to clear the air and be friends again. I was confused, but I forgave him. Rochellita then showed up and told me to leave him alone, but I didn't. Before the chariots took off, I got very nervous and began having a panic attack, so Beetee tried to assure me that everything was fine, and I...I asked him how I looked."

I blush. Violette raises her eyebrows, pulls her little bottle of liquor out of her jacket, and takes a gulp, replacing it without comment. "Go on," she urges.

"And...he told me I looked like a streetwalker. An adolescent whore."

"Leave it to Jarvis," she mutters.

"He said it wasn't my fault, but he still seemed uncomfortable. So I kissed him on the cheek and boarded the chariot. I...I couldn't stop thinking about him," I admit with a shy smile. "I thought...I honestly thought I might be falling in love. I wondered if there was the slightest possibility he could feel the same way. Anyway, after the Tribute Parade, he came to see me again and said we needed to talk. He asked about the kisses. I explained that I thought it was what he wanted. He told me I thought too much. And somehow...I told him how my mother died."

Violette stiffens slightly at this but doesn't comment.

"Afterward, Beetee said it wasn't fair that I had already gone through so much, but I had to go through even more. I asked him if he'd help me through it, and he..."

I trail off, looking at Violette to see how she's taking this.

"What happened?" she asks, staring intently at me. I continue, my face getting warm, staring at the floor.

"_He _kissed _me_. I have no idea why," I add quickly, scared of looking at Violette, "but at the time, I didn't care. Then he stopped and said he shouldn't have come to see me. I told him I loved him, and he said that I couldn't. Then he left. So..."

"You said that you weren't going to be a pawn in his sick game and that you hated him," finishes Violette. "I heard that part."

"Really?" I ask, feeling slightly sick.

"Yes. Now continue."

"I didn't go to much of training the second day either. Before the lunch break, I accidentally shot an arrow at the boy from District One. I didn't hit him, and it was an _accident_, but he accused me of trying to kill him and humiliated me in front of everyone. I left and sat on the roof, just wishing I could be home. I'll give you one guess who found me there."

"Beetee," says Violette.

I nod. "He said that there had never been a tribute who gave up on the second day. Before lunch. I got really angry at him—"

"Naturally," mutters Violette.

"—and demanded to know why he'd followed me. Then I told him that I'd given up. He seemed very disturbed at the thought—a little too much so. I told him that I wasn't a pawn and that I was confused and angry.

"'Who wouldn't be angry?' he asked.

"That made me angrier. Didn't he know that he was the _reason _I was so confused and angry? I told him this and he asked how I was the victim. Wasn't the answer obvious? I was—and still am—doomed to die in less than a week, at the hands of another. He said that I was acting like I was the first tribute who was going to die, which honestly terrified me. Even _Beetee _thought I was doomed. That must have meant that it was true. I told him this Then he said, 'I don't want you to die, okay? So stop saying that!'

"We were quiet for almost a minute or so and he continued. He said that he didn't know why he cared so much about me and that it'd just be easier if I left him alone. It was probably rude, but I laughed. I said that he was hilarious because he wouldn't admit the simple truth—he was in love with me. He was…well, _shocked_ is an understatement. I said that there was no logical reason we couldn't be together. He said he just couldn't and I left.

"I went back to training and met the girl from District Eleven, and I discovered that her sister had also been in the Hunger Games. Is it fate or mere coincidence when I realized that her sister was reaped during _Beetee's _Games? I think fate, but I usually do. She told me about his Games a little and curiosity took over—I skipped dinner and watched Beetee's Games. Or, at least, I tried to. Beetee came in, saw me watching the tape, and turned it off. I seized the opportunity and picked up our earlier conversation. He tried to deflect the question of whether or not he loved me yet again and said that it didn't matter how he felt, the fact was that..."

I trail off.

"What did he say?" asks Violette. To my surprise she doesn't seem angry. She seems almost interested. A little shocked, but interested.

_Interested is good_, I think. _Better than angry. _

"What did he say?" she asks again.

"He didn't finish," I say. "I kissed him."

Violette raises her eyebrows a little but doesn't say anything.

"And then…I guess he realized I was right. About us. He...he finally told me loved me. So…we went…to his room, and…um…"

I really don't know how to say it. So I do what I apparently do well: I stop thinking and spit the words out:

"We had sex."

"What?!"

"We had sex," I repeat, staring into her eyes.

"You and Beetee had sex?" she asks, seeming very shocked.

"Yes," I reiterate.

"Why?" She still doesn't seem angry, just surprised.

"I don't know," I say quietly, sitting down on the floor. "I really don't know. But I don't regret it. I…I _wanted _it to happen. I thought…I guess I thought…if we did it, then it meant that he couldn't change his mind."

"Wiress…"

"But it's more than that," I continue, desperate for her not to jump to the same conclusion Marcelle did. "The total surrender of myself to another person, with the fragile hope that he wouldn't misuse me…and he didn't," I add, "but at the time, the odds were a million to one that he'd just take what he wanted from me and leave me. But I trusted him anyway. That means something to me. I haven't trusted anyone in a long time, and I've never trusted anyone the way I trusted him. That was the first time I'd ever…you know, done _it_. And when he still loved me in the morning…it was probably the most beautiful thing in the world. We'd done it. I trusted him with more than I'd ever trusted anyone, and he'd done the same, and we were still okay. It meant that we had something special."

Violette nods.

"But we made a mistake," I continue. "The night after the training session…we didn't lock the door."

Violette puts her hand over her mouth.

"And Marcelle walked in. He was—to be blunt—pissed off. But not at me—mostly at Beetee. He yelled at him then left, but I got dressed and followed him. Marcelle told me that having sex with him is called statutory rape. I was terrified for about five minutes, but then, after telling Beetee I didn't care, it didn't matter anymore. I've talked to Marcelle and he's still angry at Beetee, and at me, too."

Violette takes a deep breath. "If I don't tell," she begins, "and Rochellita finds out, I'll get arrested."

I almost gasp.

"But," she continues with a slight smile, "we District Three folk have to stick together. I'll admit I didn't like you at first, but I guess you've grown on me, especially after your story. No, I won't tell. I'll take you secret to my grave."

"Really?" I ask.

"Really," she says. "Now go take a nap; you need one."

I nod gratefully and run out.

I slip back into Beetee's room. It's completely dark and empty.

Or, at least, I think it's empty.

"Wiress? What are you doing here?"

I jump and Beetee sits up, turning on the lamp.

"Why is it so dark in here?" I ask, my heart slowing back down.

"I was sleeping," he says, slightly amused.

"What a coincidence."

"How?"

"Because that's what _I _came in here for." I take off my shoes and get into bed next to him. "Goodnight," I murmur, closing my eyes.

"Morning," Beetee corrects quietly, but I'm already asleep.

Someone's shaking my shoulder. Whispering frantically in my ear. I open my eyes, still half-asleep, and Beetee whispers again, "Wiress, wake up."

I sit up. "What's wrong?"

"It's almost four o'clock in the afternoon."

"What the hell?" I immediately throw back the blanket and pull on my shoes. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You haven't slept well for the past four days," he says. "You needed the rest."  
I nod. He has a point. Then again, when doesn't he?

"We don't want Violette or Rochellita looking for you," Beetee continues.

It hits me like a bolt of lightning. "Beetee...I told Violette."

"What?!"

"I told her," I whisper. "I told her everything."

"Why?" he whispers back. He looks terrified.

"Beetee...we can trust her."

"What makes you say that?" Beetee demands. "She took a machete and turned almost a dozen kids into sushi!"

"You electrocuted five kids and watched them scream. You watched them writhe on the ground." Beetee flinches visibly, but I continue anyway. "Yet, I trust you. I see no reason we shouldn't trust Violette."

He sighs. "If you think it's for the best," he says slowly, "then we can trust her."

I smile a little and kiss his forehead. "Goodbye for now," I murmur.

"Good luck," he murmurs back, closing his eyes. I go to the door and close it on my way out, then run as fast as humanly possible to my room.

To my horror, my prep team and Orion are already waiting for me.

"Where have you _been_, Wendy?" he demands.

I sigh just a little, having given up on making him learn my name. Then a full-scale panic attack threatens to take me over. "Uh...uh..."

"She was with me," says a familiar voice.

I turn around and Violette looks down at me disdainfully.

"On her own, the poor girl doesn't stand a chance," Violette continues. "I was just giving her some pointers. Isn't it my _job _to prepare her with an angle for the interview?I _am _still her mentor, aren't I?"

She dares Orion with her eyes to question this, and though Orion is almost a foot taller than her, Violette seems to tower over him.

"Of course you are," he mumbles.

_Score one for District 3! _I can't help but think.

"I'll leave you to it, then," she says, then strides off. Orion takes me into my room and orders me to strip. I close my eyes, trying to shut off all feeling. I'm a very different person than I was the last time I was "worked on," having lost some—insecurity and my virginity—and gained much more—iBeetee, to put it simply—but I'm still dead shy when it comes to strangers staring at my naked body.

Orion helps me into some undergarments and then fits me into a metallic, form-fitting black dress that is cut low and hits my mid-thigh. Thankfully, it's not made of actual metal this time.

My prep team fixes my hair, grumbling about the shorter length, then meticulously applies my makeup. Orion then takes my hand and leads me to the mirror. I look like a different person, but it's easy to see that, behind the dark smears of makeup, I have something to hide.

I close my eyes, and to my astonishment, tears start sliding silently down my cheeks, most likely smudging my dark mask.

"Wiress!" the four other people in the room shout, shocked. I hardly notice that they finally got my name right. I just stand there with Orion's hand clasped tightly around my upper-arm, crying silently.

_Oh, Beetee, _I think desperately. _Look what they've made me into. Look what they've made _us _ us to hide everything that makes us who we are._

I inhale deeply and stop crying with great effort. Orion takes a small tissue and starts dabbing my face.

"Damage isn't too bad," he mutters.

I grit my teeth.

"Okay," he says. "We're done here."

The three colorful parrots and Orion leave quickly. I look at my reflection, and in a split second, I formulate a plan. I run to the bathroom and wash my face. Slowly but surely, the girl called Wiress MacDanielle stares back at me in the mirror.

Satisfied, I pull off my dress and run back over to the wardrobe. I find exactly what I'm looking for—my reaping dress. But then, another idea hits me. I get another dress as well—a bright red lick of flame, shimmering in the light. I put on my reaping dress and pull the other dress on over it—it's a little tight, but with some adjusting, you can't even tell that anything's underneath anymore. This dress is the opposite of me—it has long sleeves, and it's very form-fitting, clinging to my practically nonexistent curves and hitting my leg at my knee. I'll stand out big-time.

For once, that's my goal.

I search around and find a pair of black velvet boots, except they stop at my ankle. I pull them on, walking around a little to get used to them, then find something else: a black, metallic eye-mask.

I put it on as well, then take a brush and yank it through my hair. Hairspray makes this a painful task; I've probably ripped out half my hair, but when I look in the mirror, the desired effect has been achieved. I'm the opposite of Wiress.

I smile with satisfaction and slip out of my room, running down the hall. I slide to a stop in front of Beetee's door and try to open it; locked.

I start knocking. I pray he'll open the door.

After a few impossibly long seconds, he does.

His eyes grow wide and I go into the room. Beetee closes the door and turns to me.

"I'm guessing Orion didn't put you in that," he says, but his eyes are tense with worry.

"Don't worry," I reply. "I have a plan this time."

"Like your plan with the dummy?"

His sincere smile takes the sting from his words.

"No," I insist. "I have a real plan."

"Will it work?" Beetee asks tensely.

"I haven't the slightest idea," I admit.

"Wiress!" he almost moans.

"Trust me," I whisper. "I need to do this."

Beetee just takes me in his arms. I bury my face in his neck.

"Good luck, Wiress," he murmurs into my hair.

"I'll need it," I whisper back. I reluctantly pull away from his embrace and he gently kisses my forehead.

"Knock 'em dead," he whispers. "You're a live wire now."

Wiress the wire.

This time, it isn't just a joke. It's the most sincere compliment I've every gotten.


	12. Chapter XII

_This has _got _to work_, I think desperately, chewing on a piece of my hair—whatever hairspray was left in it has dissolved in my mouth. _It has to._

Jess, the girl from District 1, pompously tells Caesar Flickerman why _she _should win. I almost laugh; she appears to have half a brain cell. She may get sponsors, but her devastatingly beauty will do her no good in the arena. Her district partner, Brozen, woos the crowd with his good looks and strength. He's obviously a favorite to win, to my chagrin.

After the cheers and whistles diminish, the girl from District 2, Mae, steps up.

_Let go of your inhibitions_, I think, trying to calm myself down. _You can do this. You _have _to. There's no turning back._

More cheering, more whistling. Now the boy from District 2—Ari—is up. I close my eyes.

_You're a live wire now, _Beetee said.

I exhale deeply. Then I smile. I _can _do this. I _will_.

I can hardly hear the excited cheering for Ari. Caesar calls my name.

I walk up the few steps carefully. The audience gasps as one.

"Wow!" says Caesar when I sit in the chair across from him. Even though he's been talking to other tributes for almost twenty minutes now, this is the first time I've really heard his voice in person, or rather, really _listened_. Somehow, he makes me feel calmer. "Are you Wiress MacDanielle?" he asks disbelievingly, looking me over.

"Yes," I say, grinning and lifting my mask up for a moment.

"You look…well, fantastic doesn't _begin _to cover it! Did Orion do a good job or what?"

"Actually," I interrupt coolly, still smiling, "I dressed myself."

"Oh," Caesar says, deflating slightly. "Your stylist let you dress _yourself_?"

"Not exactly," I say mysteriously. I cross my fingers like a superstitious child.

"Oh," Caesar says again.

The crowd starts mumbling. I say a quick prayer.

"Caesar," I ask, hesitating slightly, "can I see your microphone?"

"My…microphone?" he asks blankly.

I nod, still smiling sweetly.

_Say yes_, I think. _My whole plan crumbles if you don't say yes…_

"Sure?" says Caesar, confusing making his response a question. He hands me the microphone, arching his eyebrows. The mumbling in the audience gets more pronounced; the crowd sounds like an angry swarm of bees, but I ignore it, standing up.

"A lot of people," I say; then I pause, glancing at Caesar for approval; he nods, but he still looks confused. "A lot of people think that winning the Hunger Games makes them victorious. In a way, they're right, but in a much more important way, they're dead wrong. My goal isn't…to come home alive. It's to come home as Wiress MacDanielle—as myself—whether dead or alive. I'm not going to let the Hunger Games change me. And...here's my promise."

I hand Caesar his microphone and start unzipping my dress.

The whole crowd gasps and the buzzing continues until I have the red dress off and my reaping dress is exposed. I take off my shoes one at a time and leave them on the stage. Then, I slowly take off my mask and deliberately toss it into the crowd. I spread my arms and say, "This is who I am. Take it or leave it."

My timing is absolutely perfect. The timer then rings.

I walk off the stage.

A few brave souls clap. Someone whistles. Everyone else is dead silent, stricken with shock at what I've done.

I've rebelled.

* * *

As soon as I'm back in the building I start running, my bare feet making me faster. I stop in front of Beetee's door but the sudden friction catches me off-guard; I nearly fall to my knees, but someone grabs my hand and helps me to my feet. I wrap my arms around his neck, knowing that the fact that we're in the middle of the hall hardly matters; Beetee and I are completely alone.

"Was that good?" I ask, my voice a whisper.

"It was…risky," he says slowly.

I step away from him and open the door. Beetee enters the room after me.

The door closes and Beetee takes me in his arms.

"But it was _brilliant_," he finishes in a whisper, awed.

"It wasn't stupid?"

"Absolutely not," he says. "It was brilliant. _You're _brilliant. I never could have come up with that."

He tangles his fingers into my hair. His other hand finds my back; I wrap my arms around his neck again, and the world shrinks to a small sphere, just Beetee and me. His mouth meets mine—softly at first, but with increasing heat as whatever insecurities we still have melt away like candle wax.

The bridge of Beetee's glasses is cool, but the rest of his skin is achingly warm, so it's easy to overlook. I reach behind my back…or maybe Beetee does? Everything in my head is muddled, but not unpleasantly. But one of us unzips my dress. I can feel the warmth of his hands through the thin fabric of my undershirt; my dress slips to the floor.

Then the door opens.

At first I don't notice it, but then I hear a stern, icy, frighteningly familiar voice yell, "Hey!"

Beetee and I both jump back, but my dress is still tangled with my feet. I trip and fall to the floor, then frantically pull my dress back on. But it doesn't really matter. As I look up into Rochellita's ferociously victorious face, the truth hits me like a piece of lead pipe.

We've been betrayed.

"Get up," Rochellita snaps.

I immediately scramble to my feet and pull my dress back up, my fingers shaking on the zipper. This can't be it. This can't be the end.

_Don't let it be,_ a voice whispers in my ear, a strong voice that echoes with the quality of an almost-forgotten memory. My mother.

_You aren't helpless,_ she continues. _Do something. Anything! Protect him the way he'd protect you, if given the chance._

Rochellita grabs Beetee's wrist, but I grip her forearm and glare into her cold eyes.

"Let him go," I demand. "He hasn't done anything wrong. Whatever you've seen was brought on by me and me only."

"Wiress," Beetee whispers.

I put my finger over his lips and smile. "Don't," I whisper back. "We're in this together; I won't let you blame yourself."

His dark eyes shine with tears but not a single one falls; he merely nods once and mouths the words _I love you_.

Rochellita's icy laughter can't freeze the bond we've forged, but it does break through our reverie. "You two are pathetic. Especially you, Wiress. You act righteous, as if you and your lover have done nothing wrong."

"You have no proof that he's ever touched me before tonight," I reply coldly. "Only the word of a twelve-year-old boy with a grudge."

"You assume Marcelle told?" Rochellita waves her hand as if this isn't important. "You would be correct, of course. Poor little Marcelle came to me practically in tears saying he had a horrible secret he needed to share." She makes her voice higher to mimic Marcelle's and says, "'Wiress won't tell you, but you need to know that she's been sleeping with Beetee. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I thought I could handle it. Wiress needs help,' and so on and so forth. He actually said you probably have Stockholm syndrome; from what I've seen, he's probably r—"

"Marcelle du Vaal doesn't know anything," I interrupt. "He only assumes. You still have no proof that we've ever done anything."

Rochellita laughs again. "I have just enough. Now stand aside."

I stand in front of Beetee protectively, facing Rochellita. "No," I say.

"Get out of the way, girl. You have no idea what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Rochellita. I'm putting myself aside and protecting the man I love. The only thing I want is for him to be safe—I'm expendable, so throw whatever you'd like at me, but as long as I'm alive, you won't lay a hand on Beetee."

Beetee takes my hand and squeezes my fingers encouragingly.

"Get out of the way before I force you to!" Rochellita almost screams.

Beetee takes a step forward so that he's standing at my side. "You won't so much as lay a finger on her so long as I'm here," he says fiercely. "You can threaten us all you'd like, but we know you won't deliver."

"Really?" asks Rochellita rhetorically.

She grabs my arm and yanks me to her side; she holds me in front of her like a shield, her long fingernails digging into my shoulder. I squirm, trying to break free of her hold, but it's too tight; I'm stuck.

"Let her go," Beetee says.

Rochellita snatches my arm and bends it behind my back; I can only cry out from the pain.

_Please, make her stop!_ I beg silently to no one.

"Admit what you've done and give yourself up to the police," Rochellita says maniacally, "and I'll let her go. Continue to resist, and I'll break her arm. It'll be easy – like breaking a toothpick."

"Don't!" I scream desperately, but Rochellita puts her free hand over my mouth. I can't help but whimper from the pain in my arm; tears leak out of my eyes and slide down my cheeks.

Beetee looks conflicted, then defeated. He slowly walks to the door.

Rochellita grins triumphantly and releases me; it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from falling. My whole arm feels numb.

"I'm glad you see this my way," she says, wrapping her arm around Beetee's shoulder. I look at them and make a split-second decision: I leap forward and tackle Rochellita from behind. She doesn't see me coming and lands on her face; I hear the sickening _crunch_ of her nose breaking.

"Why?" Beetee asks in shock. In response, I take his hand and pull him out the door. I close it and we run down the hall; after maybe five minutes, we come to a halt.

"Wiress," Beetee says breathlessly, "do you have a plan?"

"No," I admit.

"Wiress," he almost moans, "are you sure—?"

"I'm surer than I've ever been about anything," I say determinedly, wrapping my arms around his neck. "We'll be okay. I promise."

His lips meet mine briefly and he murmurs, "You're switching our roles. I'm supposed to be protecting_you_, not the other way around."

I smile. "When you really love someone, it works both ways."

Beetee smiles back ironically. "I'm starting to think your life would have been better if I'd left you alone."

"Stop thinking like that," I whisper. "Leaving me alone is the worst thing you could have done. I love you, Beetee Jarvis. No matter what happens to me, I'm going to get you out of here."

"You're coming too," Beetee says, holding me in his arms. My safe haven—like in my mother's lullaby. "I won't leave you. Not now, not ever."

"Promise?" I ask like a superstitious child.

He smiles again, more sincerely. "I promise."

He takes my hand and we keep running.

"Do you remember," asks Beetee, "the song you were singing the other day?"

I nod.

We slide to a stop to catch our breath. "Sing it to me," he says softly. "I'm so scared, mostly for you. Please, sing to me."

I nod again, sitting on my knees in the corner. Beetee sits next to me and takes my hand again.

_"I don't want us to fight because I love you so_

_It's hard on me 'cause I can't let you go_

_When I look in your eyes, I find my paradise_

_Forever I will need you by my side..."_

I look at Beetee and he smiles a little.

"Keep going," he murmurs.

I lean against him but just as quickly sit up.

Footsteps. Many pairs of feet running very quickly.

"We have to go," I say, standing up. Beetee stands as well, worry darkening the light I put in his eyes.

"We'll be okay," I whisper again. "I promise."

We turn and run as fast as we can, but we stop suddenly. Seven large Peacekeepers stand in our path.

A whimper escapes my throat. Beetee squeezes my hand.

"Surrender peacefully and we won't harm you," the one in front says authoritatively.

"Never," I say.

Beetee and I turn around to run in the opposite direction, but for more Peacekeepers stand rigidly behind us, glaring.

We're surrounded.

One of the Peacekeepers grabs me and pushes me against the nearest wall. I grunt and try to wriggle out of his hold, but he shoves me harder and cuffs my hands behind my back.

"Get away from her!" Beetee yells. "Leave her alone!"

I hear a thud and a sharp intake of breath. Another thud, and at the same time, the smallest, most sickening snap. A long, drawn-out moan of agony.

A clink of metal. A horrible sound—a mixture of a groan and a sob.

"No!" I scream, starting to cry myself. "Please—leave him alone, please!"

I hear something else: fast, light footsteps coming this way.

"What the hell?" one of the Peacekeepers shouts in disbelief.

A moan, then a thud. Struggling More moaning, more thuds. The Peacekeeper holding me to the wall lets me go—no, someone pulls him away.

One final moan and all is still.

Someone puts their hands on my shoulders. I start, but the touch is very gentle. I hear more metal clinking and my hands are free. I turn around and a young woman—maybe twenty years old—smiles at me, her blue eyes tense with worry.

I recognize her.

"You're the Avox from the other day," I say in surprise.

She nods briskly and runs to Beetee's side. I follow her anxiously. We help Beetee sit up—his normally pale face is white and he cradles his left arm like a baby.

"Are you alright?" I ask worriedly.

"Think my arm is broken," he mutters, clenching his teeth when the Avox girl stretches out gingerly. "Yeah—definitely broken."

I notice his glasses are missing. "Where are your...oh."

I spot them a few feet away, snapped cleanly in two. I hand Beetee the broken pieces.

"Son of a bitch!" he groans angrily.

"Can you see without them?" I ask anxiously.

"Sort of," he mumbles, looking around.

I look at the blonde Avox girl, our savior. "What's your name?" I ask.

She searches her pockets but comes up empty. She starts shaking her hand in midair, moving it from left to right. I simply stare at her, dumbfounded.

"Oh!" says Beetee. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what the blonde girl was looking for—a pen. He hands it to her, and she smiles and uncaps it, then writes something on palm. She shows it to me:

_RAELLEN_

Beetee squints and groans again. "Dammit, I can't read that."

"Raellen," I say for Beetee's benefit. I look up at the Avox. "You're name's Raellen?"

She nods. We gingerly help Beetee to his feet. I look around at the Peacekeepers littering the floor.

"How did you do this?" I ask slowly. The girl called Raellen isn't much larger than me, and I'm only five feet two, and I can't weigh more than a hundred pounds. The Peacekeepers, however, are huge, larger than my stylist, Orion.

Raellen points to where her neck meets her shoulder. I continue staring in confusion.

"Pressure points," Beetee murmurs. "Dammit, I should've done that."

Raellen smiles a little. Some of the Peacekeepers start stirring.

"We need to go," I say.

"Which way?" asks Beetee.

"They came from that way," I say slowly, pointing forward, "so they'll expect us to go in the opposite direction...so let's go left."

Beetee smiles. "You're a lot smarter than you look."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

We start running.

"Where exactly," Beetee says, "are we headed?"

"The front door," I say.

"And then?"

"We'll hijack a train," I decide. "We'll get out of Panem and figure the rest out later."

"You do realize that's illegal?"

"We've already broken about twenty laws," I say. "What's a few more?"

Raellen lets out a laugh that sounds like a cough.

Suddenly we stop. Footsteps and voices.

Raellen taps our shoulders to get our attention. She puts her hand together, then pulls them slowly apart.

"We aren't splitting up; that's a horrible idea," Beetee whispers in horror.

"No," I whisper slowly, "it's brilliant."

"Wiress!"

"No, listen—you and Raellen keep running. I'll lead the Peacekeepers away from you and meet you at the train depot."

"No," he says.

"Do you trust me?" I ask.

"It isn't a question of trust—"

"Beetee Jarvis, _do you trust me?_"

"Yes, but I'm terrified of losing you!" he says. "I've lost someone I loved once even though I had the power to save her. I'm not going to make the same mistake again!"

It hits me that there's a lot about Beetee that I don't know.

Raellen anxiously points toward the Peacekeepers who have turned at the sound of our voices.

"We don't have time to discuss this," I say quickly. "I'm sorry, Beetee, you have to trust me on this. You have to, please."

He looks at me tortuously "Okay," he says softly after what seems like an eternity.

He wraps his good arms around my waist. His lips brush my ear and he whispers, "I love you, Wiress MacDanielle. No matter what happens."

"No matter what happens," I repeat solemnly. I gently put my lips to his cheek, then reluctantly pull away. I look at both Beetee and Raellen and say, "This isn't goodbye; I'll see you both soon, when we're all free. Keep...keep each other safe."

My voice nearly breaks and I impatiently blink away the sudden tears in my eyes. Raellen takes Beetee's hand and they run. I turn and walk briskly in the opposite direction until I hear a voice yell, "Hey!"

I stare at three huge Peacekeepers. Recklessly, I shout, "You want me? Come and get me!" and start running. They're right at my heels, but I keep running, determined to lead them away from my lover and the Avox who has become my closest and most trusted friend.

I keep running until I reach a dead end.

"No," I whisper.

One Peacekeeper grabs my by the waist and forces me to my knees. "Tell us where he went," he whispers threateningly in my ear.

"Never," I snarl, struggling to break free of his hold.

I hear more voices in the distance. The Peacekeeper holding me cuffs my hands behind my back again, then stands up.

"Finally," he mutters. I look up and, to my horror, Beetee and Raellen are forced to their knees on either side of me.

"No," I whisper again.

It's all over.

I hear more footsteps and Rochellita stares down at us scornfully. Her nose is bandaged, but she still looks sickeningly triumphant.

"Ma'am," one Peacekeeper says to her, "do you know these people? We were told that they were escapees, but nothing more."

The largest, nastiest grin spreads across my escort's face.

"As a matter of fact," says Rochellita, "I do." She points to Raellen and says, "Raellen Cane, age twenty-one. When she was nineteen she tried to take her younger sister's place in the Forty-fourth Hunger Games—I know her sister's name, but as it's unimportant, I'll keep it to myself. Raellen was made an Avox for her crime and her dear sister was killed during the bloodbath, just another dead tribute from District Twelve."

Raellen became an Avox because she was trying to protect her sister? That was the horrible, unmentionable crime she committed?

That could have easily been Raphela and me.

I feel sick.

Rochellita points to me. "Wiress MacDanielle, age seventeen, one of the two tributes from District Three for this year's Games. Her mother was as meddling as she is and was executed almost nine years ago. Little Wiress has been balancing her time here in the Capitol crying, pulling stupid stunts, and sleeping with her district partner's mentor.

"Who just so happens to be escapee number three!" Rochellita kneels in front of Beetee and says, "Beetee Jarvis, age twenty-five. Victor of the Thirty-eighth Hunger Games. He won by electrocuting the Career pack, then slitting the other remaining tribute's throat. However," says Rochellita softly, "the moment when Beetee seemed to have everything, he realized the only thing he really had was Lizah Pollard's blood all over his hands."

"Shut up," Beetee whispers, tears running down his cheeks.

"Anyway," says Rochellita indifferently, standing up, "do what you will with the other two, but give me the girl. Wiress."

A Peacekeeper releases me and Rochellita grabs my arm in her steely grip. She yanks me down a hallway and I shout, "What's going to happen to them?"

"Shut up," she snarls. We don't stop until we reach a solid wood door. Rochellita pushes me inside and says, "Sit."

I sit in the chair opposite the room's only decoration: an office desk the same color and material as the door. Rochellita sits behind it and says, "Explain yourself!"

"No!" I shout.

"Explain yourself, you little whore! Now!" Rochellita yells.

"Don't you dare call me a whore! You're nothing but an over-controlling bitch who doesn't give a damn about anybody but _herself!_" I scream, remembering Raellen pale and trembling, Beetee crying, Raphela crying, my mother's murder...all of it flashes before my eyes and makes me angrier than I've ever been before.

"Fine! I wanted to let you off easily, but you leave me no choice!" She stands up and yanks me out of the room, pulling me forcefully down the hallway with a look of grim determination on her face.

"I do have proof that you and Beetee Jarvis are lovers," she says, slightly out of context.

"Marcelle's word means less than nothing!" I yell, still struggling to pull out of her hold.

"Dear girl, I've known since the very beginning. There are video cameras in every single room in this building; I've been watching your little love story unfold since the very first day. I also know that Violette knows; I'll be sure to speak with her later."

My blood runs cold.

She knew.

_She knew._

Every word.

Every kiss.

Every touch.

Rochellita knew it all.

Beetee and I made love in what we believed to be the complete privacy of his bedroom; the whole time, Rochellita was watching with her eyes cold as ice, biding her time, thinking of all the ways she'd make us pay for being what we were: forbidden lovers of the worst kind—a mentor and a tribute.

My whole body feels numb.

_Beetee, we were doomed,_ I cry silently. _From the first time I kissed you, we were doomed, doomed, doomed._

I stop resisting Rochellita and she leads me down three flights of stairs until we're in what has to be the ground floor, if we aren't underneath the building. We walk through dark corridors lit only by flickering ceiling lights; ominous shadows flit across the floor, making me increase my pace.

Finally, we reach a door. Rochellita opens it and shoves me heartlessly into the room. I fall the floor on my back, and by the time I've scrambled to my feet, the door is locked. I start pounding on it.

"Let me out!" I yell.

No response. I look around my prison cell. It's a very small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, no bigger than the bathroom back home. I sit against the wall to think about my situation. Am I under arrest? I don't think so.

More importantly, what happened to Raellen?

_What happened to Beetee?_

My eyes close for a moment, but suddenly, I stand up, alarmed. A scream pierces the small room, filling my eardrums with its horrific agony. The voice sounds like a mixture of a wounded animal and a young woman.

I suddenly remember Raellen's laugh that sounded slightly off, slightly inhuman. I hurry to the door and start beating on it just as Raellen screams again.

_They're torturing her._

"No!" I scream. Another piercing scream from Raellen. "No—leave her alone, _leave her alone!_"

Either no one hears me or I'm ignored, because Raellen's screams continue to echo through my prison cell.

I sink to my knees and put my hands over my ears, almost crushing my skull. Blood pounds in my ears and tears run down my cheeks. Raellen's screams pierce my ears for what seems to be hours, but in reality, only about twenty of the longest minutes of my life.

They aren't even interrogating her. She can't speak! How can you question someone who can't speak?

This is punishment.

Punishment for helping me.

Suddenly, Raellen's scream chokes off with a horribly soft moan.

Silence.

_She's dead._ That's the only reason they would have stopped.

"No!" I scream. I'm shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. "No..."

I curl up into a ball on the ground. For five minutes or five hours I lay, sobbing for Raellen, whom I hardly knew. _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..._

Suddenly, another scream cuts through the small room. It definitely isn't Raellen; this voice is male, and it's definitely human.

I recognize it as well as my own.

I stand up and throw my shoulder against the door, but it won't budge. Another horrible scream pierces the air as I pound the door, using all of my weight in a futile attempt to knock it down.

More screaming. I find my voice, and the top of my lungs, I scream his name. _"Beetee!"_


	13. Chapter XIII

_"No!"_ I scream, continuing my fruitless attempts to knock down the door to my prison cell. "Leave him alone, please! It's my fault, _it's my fault_, he didn't do anything wrong, please, _please!_"

I'm hardly coherent through my racking sobs as I beat on the door. Beetee screams again; I'm positive that he and the bastards hurting him are unable to hear me. I don't care; I keep throwing my weight against the door, sobbing and screaming his name.

Minutes drag on like hours. I think they're actually questioning him instead of just punishing him, as they did to poor Raellen, who's dead _because of me._

What could they be asking? Questions about me? About the escape? Whose idea it was?

If that's true, then Beetee is blaming himself, as is his way.

_And the Capitol knows what really happened._

They're letting him lie and he's being punished for it! They know the truth, but Beetee is lying through his teeth to protect me.

_Beetee, I don't deserve it! I don't deserve it! Please, tell them the truth, please!_ I think desperately.

I fall to the floor again and get back in the fetal position with the palms of my hands crushing my ears flat against my head. I can hardly breathe._Let it end, let it end, let it end..._

Up until now, I thought I was an adult, thought I had been since I was eight. I was wrong. I'm not an adult; I'm a child, a child who played a dangerous game. I played a game of Romeo and Juliet with Beetee Jarvis. I won his heart, and what's more, I won his trust. But now, he's being punished for _my_ crime.

_And the Capitol knows it._

I hardly notice my sobbing and moaning as I plead for them to let Beetee go. All I can hear is his screaming. _Make it stop, make it stop! _

There's no clock in my tiny torture chamber, but I can feel time moving by very slowly.

A minute becomes thirty.

Thirty minutes becomes an hour.

An hour becomes two hours.

And on and on. My ears and heart ache from Beetee's screams. _All I ever wanted was to be happy...for you to be happy. All you wanted was for me to be safe. All you ever did was love me. And look how I've repaid you, Beetee! Look what I've done! _

I compared Beetee to fire, something I wanted and needed in my previously dreary life. Something exciting, something almost magical.

That same fire is burning me up now.

Maybe two o'clock in the morning the next day, something happens. Something either miraculous or truly horrible: silence. Almost silence, anyway. Compared to the screaming that's filled my head for the last few hours, these sounds are very quiet. I hear sobbing—Beetee?—and someone speaking in a low voice. I can't make out the words. I listen closer as I hear more whispering. Threatening whispering. What are they saying? What, what?

I can't hear their words, but I can hear Beetee's next words.

"Please," he moans, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Please...no."

A sob tears at my throat.

One more scream that echoes through my prison cell.

Then, silence.

I sit bolt upright. Minutes pass tortuously slowly, and then it hits me.

Silence.

That can only mean one thing.

"No!" I scream. "No! No, no, no!"

I start beating at the door again, sobbing, screaming until my throat is raw. Beetee can't be dead! He can't be! No, no, no!

_No..._

Memories flash through my head.

_Day one, I wondered if I should count you as my friend._

_Day two, I felt confused and angry at you._

_Day three, I felt angrier at you. _

_Day four, I realized I was in love with you. Deeply, deeply in love. And for some unfathomable reason, you felt the same way._

_Day five, Marcelle found out our secret. I learned that you could be arrested, yet I loved you anyway._

_And day six, you're dead, dead dead dead, all because of me..._

I remember Beetee's words from just a few hours previously, when he was alive, when he was still in my arms:

_"__I'm starting to think your life would have been better if I'd left you alone."_

_You were wrong,_ I think tearfully. _Oh, Beetee, you were wrong, it was _your_life that would have been better if _I'd_left _you _alone._

Why did I have to be so damned determined? When I kissed Beetee and he got angry, I should have just given up! What about me made me so determined to worm my way into his heart, and, though I hate to put it this way, into his bed? Why, why, why?

I don't remember falling, but soon my cheek is pressed against the cold tile floor. I continue crying, for Beetee, for Raellen, and for myself, Wiress MacDanielle, teenage murderess.

My mother.

My friend.

My lover.

All dead at my hand.

I'm a child. A little girl who played grown-up games.

A little girl who didn't think of the consequences.

A little girl with her lover's blood all over her hands...

* * *

I don't remember the rest of the night. I know I didn't sleep, but the next memory that's clear is of Violette's arms wrapping around me early the next morning. A small piece of relief cuts through my pain, but it doesn't last long. Even in the silence, Beetee's horrible screaming echoes in my ears.

"Violette," I whisper.

"Don't," she says in an unusually soothing voice. "Just come with me."

Violette helps me to my feet and leads me to my room. Once there, I sit numbly on my bed.

"You need to rest," she murmurs.

"He's dead," I whisper, unable to raise my voice. "Beetee—"

"I know," says Violette. "I know what those bastards did to him. Be strong, Wiress. Win. For Beetee."

"For Beetee," I repeat, still numb with pain. Slightly uncharacteristically, Violette kisses my forehead and leaves the room. The second she's gone, I long to have her back. Fear ices my blood—fear for myself and for Violette. Will she be victim number three?

I fold my hands under my chin, feeling just a little silly. If there's ever been a time for me to pray, now would definitely be it, but I've never prayed before. I don't even know if there is a God—if there is, He certainly hasn't been very kind to me. Maybe I just don't deserve kindness. Maybe I've brought everything that's happened to me on myself.

Nevertheless, I close my eyes. _God? Can you hear me? It's me, Wiress. Look, I know I haven't done a whole lot of good, but please, please listen to me. Please... keep Violette safe. Keep my father safe, and my sister Raphela safe as well. Don't let anyone hurt them. Please. Oh, tell my mother I love her, and Beetee too. Tell them I'll do..._

I falter. Can I really ask God to tell them I'll do my best when that means killing other people?

_Tell them I'll do what's right,_ I finish somewhat lamely. _Amen._

The clock reads seven-thirty when Orion enters my room, has me undress to my undergarments, gives me a simple robe to wear over them, and takes me by the hand, bringing me to the roof. My whole body is still numb, and even though I don't count Orion as my friend, I'm grateful by his willingness to tote me along as one would a small child. When we reach the roof, I look around for Marcelle and his stylist, but they are absent. A ladder drops down from the hovercraft oscillating about a hundred feet above my head. I put my hands and feet on the rungs, prepared to climb, but I gasp in surprise when I'm struck frozen. I can feel the current running through my body, keeping me as still as a statue. I'm brought inside the hovercraft, and an unfamiliar person approaches me with a syringe. Frightened, I try to run away, but I'm still frozen to the ladder, but I realize that my fear is unnecessary; it is simply my tracker, the device that will keep me under the Capitol's radar for my time in the arena. Silently, the man rolls up my left sleeve and inserts the large needle into my left forearm. It burns, and I whimper softly in pain, but soon he removes it and leaves without another word.

Orion boards the hovercraft next, and once again, he takes me by the hand and leads me to a room wear an extravagant breakfast has been laid out, but I turn my back to it, knowing I won't be able to hold anything down, and walk out the door and straight into Marcelle.

He's still wearing his nightclothes because we aren't allowed to see each other in our uniforms until we're in the arena. "You should eat," he tells me.

"I'm not hungry," I say, clenching my teeth.

"You really should—"

"I said no. Get out of my way."

"Wiress, can we talk?" Marcelle pleads.

Surprising even myself, I grab the front of his shirt. He looks up fearfully, seeming very much a twelve-year-old.

"No! You've taken away the one thing I had left! I told you to leave it alone, _but you didn't!_ Beetee's paid dearly, and so have I! If you think we can talk that out, you've got another thing coming, Marcelle!"

"Wiress, please—"

"And if I see you in that arena," I interrupt, still seething, "you better _believe_ I'll kill you before you can say the words 'I'm sorry.' So leave me alone!"

Orion takes me by the shoulders and pulls me away from Marcelle, ordering me to the bathroom so that I can calm down. I do so gladly, wishing I was anywhere but here. When the door is closed behind me, I sit on the floor and weep, for Beetee, who's dead because of me, for Raellen, who shouldn't have trusted me so completely, and for myself, who has only three hours until the end of life as she knows it.

After about a half an hour, I pick myself off the floor and walk out the bathroom, and I discover that Orion is waiting for me. I willingly put my hand in his and he escorts me back to the ladder that brought me here, and my heart sinks when I realize that that must mean we are here. This time, however, it leads not to the open roof but to a claustrophobia-inducing tube that will take my stylist and me to the catacombs beneath the arena. My destination is the Launch Room, which may be the last place other than the arena I ever see. Orion dresses me in this year's tribute's uniform—tight dark green pants made of material similar to that of a rain poncho and a long sleeved hooded top that's tight around my throat, wrists, and waist and made of the same material as the pants. My shoes are tight but not uncomfortable and made of some kind of mesh with rubber soles.

Water. The arena's going to have water, and lots of it, which poses a slight problem. I don't know how to swim. Hopefully I'm a fast learner.

"Do you have my district token?" I'm only able to whisper. The necklace Beetee made out of wire. I need it. It will give me strength. I haven't been wearing it, had almost forgotten about it, but now I need it like I need oxygen.

"This?" Orion takes it out, and I have the sudden urge to embrace him. He moves my hair off my neck and fixates it around my throat. I reach up to touch it, feeling warmth at touching what Beetee's clever hands created. Orion and I sit on opposite sides of the sofa allotted to us, staring in opposite directions. I am not particularly close to my stylist, but I am fully aware that he may be the last person I see, so I know I should say something, but my voice is knotted somewhere in my esophagus.

Soon, a voice calls that it's time for launch. Orion leads me to the circular metal plate. I stand on it. A glass cylinder closes around me. I fight the urge to cry. Then the countdown begins.

_Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen..._

The platform starts to rise. The countdown continues: _fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven..._

I open my eyes; I didn't realize I closed them. The arena is a huge body of water with the Cornucopia on a small island in the center. The tributes are on platforms a hundred feet away with nothing but water in between them and the Cornucopia. More than a dozen slightly larger islands circle us. They're littered with absolutely huge bright green trees that remind me of a tropical rainforest. The air isn't tropical, though; it's cool and salty to the taste. I exhale deeply.

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

"Ladies and gentlemen," says the unseen voice of Cladius Templesmith, "let the Forty-sixth Annual Hunger Games..._begin!_"


	14. Chapter XIV

I don't think of my inability to swim. I don't think of anything that may and probably is lurking in the dark water below. I just close my eyes and dive.

The water is icy and stabs at my face and hands like knives. My face breaks the surface and I take a huge, shuddering breath—but too late. I breathe in water instead of air. The salty water goes down my throat in a horrible flood, filling my lungs and making me gag. I start coughing, which makes the pain in my chest even worse.

_Let me die now_, I think before I remember why I can't die now.

Raellen. Mother. Father. Raphela. Beetee. Violette. They're all counting on me. My family needs me to come home. Raellen and Beetee are dead because of me; winning in their honor is the only thing I can do to repay them. And Violette…I hated her, thought her a useless drunk, a cold, calculating murderess, but in a strange way, I now rely on her. She's the closest thing I have to Beetee.

I have to get to the Cornucopia. There is no alternative.

When I break the surface I realize my limbs are flailing. I use my energy to propel myself forward. I try not to breathe any more water. _Get to the Cornucopia, get to the Cornucopia_, I think desperately. _Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. _

My eyes are screwed shut, so I can't see the Cornucopia; I can only hope that I'm swimming in the right direction.

_Hey, you learned something new. Congratulations_, says a voice inside my head. It sounds like Raphela.

Suddenly, my body collides with something hard. I open my eyes.

The glittering gold Cornucopia is only ten feet away. I've reached the island.

I thank my rarely lucky stars and immediately notice that the island's shore doesn't slope from the bottom of the sea—for lack of a better term. It's as if a circle about fifty feet in diameter simply rose from the bottom, like a plateau.

I hoist myself onto the shore and scramble to my feet. There's water in my ears but I don't have time to get it out; _I _need to get out. But I need something, anything. A backpack, hell, even a weapon could work. At least as a threat if not as an actual _weapon_.

_Kill or be killed_, I think, trying to repress the guilt that rises with the bile in the back of my throat at the thought. _Kill or be killed._

I run to the Cornucopia, practically crawling between people's legs to grab a medium-sized dark blue backpack. The only people here are me, District 4, and a few other stragglers. I put the backpack on and dash back toward the edge of the Cornucopia. Screams fill the air; the water in my ears makes the quieter, but different screams fill my head, more torturous and gut-wrenching then the ones of these strangers.

Beetee. Raellen. _Get moving, Wiress_.

I trip over something and fall to the ground; the force knocks the water out of one of my ears and I can hear whimpering. Not screaming, whimpering, as if someone is so terrified they can't scream. I hurriedly get back up and find myself face-to-face with another tribute. I start, but she's no threat; it's Janine of District 11.

But she's not alone.

Brozen of District 1 stands behind her. He holds a knife to her throat while she trembles and whimpers.

_Why doesn't he just kill her? _I think, but I know the answer. He's sick; he's messing with her like a cat playing with a mouse when it's not hungry. Brozen murmurs into Janine's ear; I can't tell what he's saying but it makes me angry.

Blindly, I run back toward the Cornucopia and find something: a bow and a sheath of arrows.

_I'll kill him_, I think acidly. _What perfect revenge._

Quickly yet carefully I grab the weapon and pull the strap of the sheath over my shoulder. I load the bow and point it at Brozen. _Wait, get behind him_, I decide. _You might hit Janine._

If anyone notices I have a weapon, they don't take note of it. I creep behind Brozen, trying to seem insignificant, and aim the arrow at the back of his head.

_Do it_, a voice hisses. It sounds kind of like Violette. _Do it now!_

I squeeze my eyes shut and shoot.

Just my luck. I miss. I still hit Brozen, but my shot isn't fatal; the arrow lodges itself between his shoulder blades. It doesn't go very deep, but it's enough for him to howl in pain and drop Janine, who falls to her hands and knees on the ground.

I run to her side. "We have to get out of here," I say anxiously; my voice sounds hoarse on account of the salt in my throat.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," replies Janine, trying stop shaking.

An ally. Finally, something good happens.

_Or is that good? _asks a different voice. I've never heard it before; it kind of sounds like me, except… colder. _Will you betray her as well? Will you kill her like you did Beetee?_

I moan softly. "No…leave me alone."

"Wiress, we have to go," says Janine, breaking me out of my trance. I nod and we dive into the water.

It's still ice cold, but it's easier to swim through since I've done it once already. Surprisingly, Janine proves herself a much more capable swimmer; her body is long and slim and cuts through the water almost gracefully—no easy feat considering the choppy waves that crash against us. In silent agreement we swim toward the nearest island; I pray it's uninhabited by tributes or any mutations.

I shudder. _Could there be something lurking in the water?_

I hope not. _Please, please let there be nothing in the water._

After what seems like years, the water becomes shallow; this island seems like a _regular_ island. For now, at least. With great effort, Janine and I pull ourselves onto the sandy shore; we lie on our backs and just breathe, thankful for the oxygen. My throat, eyes, and sinuses burn from the salt; I feel weak, so weak. But I have to keep moving.

I sit up; my stomach lurches violently and I leap to my feet, running to the nearest clump of bushes and vomiting. I sink to my knees, wrapping my arms around my stomach. _Kill me now, please just kill me now_.

"Damn water," I moan.

I feel so tired, so tired and weak. All I want is to curl up right where I am and have eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

_That's not possible_, says that voice in my head that sounds like Violette. _Get moving._

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and walk back to Janine's side; she's recovered much more quickly than I have and is sitting on her knees, looking at me expectantly. I kneel in front of her and put the navy backpack between us.

_The moment of truth_, I think wryly. I open the backpack and begin searching through it.

A box of matches. Let's just hope Janine is better at starting a fire than I am.

A knife with a blade about six inches long. I very carefully hand it to Janine. I already have a weapon; the bow. Part of my mind wonders how I was able to use it earlier when the other two times I tried ended in failure, but a more significant part shoves it aside. _It doesn't matter; focus on survival_.

Survival. It's actually a scary concept.

Survival.

I pull out a cylinder with a lid; a thermos? What could be in a thermos?

"Water," I whisper hoarsely.

"What's in there?" asks Janine, but her brown eyes suddenly glow with comprehension.

Fresh water. The only thing that we could use in a thermos.

I gently put the thermos back in the bag and pull out our remaining supply: a little plastic box with maybe half a loaf of bread in it. Janine's shoulders sag at the look on my face.

"Is that it?" she asks hopelessly.

I nod, sighing. I was hoping for more.

_What did you expect—a "Get out of Hunger Games" free card? _I ask myself rhetorically, wryly. I stand up.

"We should go," I say. "Plenty of forest. We should find somewhere safe."

My voice breaks on the word _safe_. There's nowhere safe here. No matter where we go, no matter where we hide, no matter how much we scream, we'll end up dead in a matter of hours.

Alone. I'm all alone.

_You have Janine_, I try to tell myself, trying to ward off some kind of panic attack, but I start hyperventilating. _Alone, alone, Wiress is all alone, _that cold voice chants in a singsong voice. _No one to protect her now. What are you going to do now? Alone, alone, alone…_

"No," I whisper.

"_No_ what?" Janine asks, standing up and heading toward the forest.

I shudder once. "Nothing. I just…have this feeling something bad is about to happen."

Janine smiles wryly. "Can anything _good _happen here?" she asks, but I don't hear her voice. I hear Beetee's instead.

* * *

"Stop," says Janine suddenly.

My blood freezes. _Here it comes: the betrayal I've been waiting for_.

But Janine isn't holding that six-inch blade to my throat. She's kneeling in front of a bush sprinkled with bright red berries. They kind of look like cherries…not that I'd know. I've only ever seen pictures of them.

Janine's smiling, not wryly or sadly. Hopefully.

Hope. Is it safe to hope? I've hoped for all my life, and where have I ended up? In the 46th Hunger Games arena. Hope is dangerous. Hope isn't safe.

I'll get hurt.

But if I never hoped, I would've given up on Beetee.

_That would've been better_, the cold voice whispers threateningly, mockingly. _Look where he ended up because of you. Burning in hell_.

"No!" I shout.

Janine starts and turns to look at me in alarm. "What's wrong?" she asks, raising her knife to ward off an attacker, but there _is _no attacker. The voice is in my head, and it's still speaking to me, hissing in my ear; I can feel its icy breath, like the water. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

_People like you are better off alone, _it hisses. _All you do is cause trouble. Why do you bother to care? No one cares about you. Who could love someone like you, Wiress MacDanielle? You're just a spineless little whore without a brain. Your own mother didn't love you._

"No, no, no, leave me alone, leave me _alone_!" I scream. I sink to my knees, crushing my skull with my palms. Janine looks at me worriedly.

"Wiress, are you alright?" she asks.

"No," I whisper again.

Janine raises her knife and I flinch, but she moves it in a sawing motion across the back of her throat. Before I can scream, she removes her severed…hood.

I sigh with relief.

Janine begins picking the berries, using her hood as a makeshift basket. I stand up and begin picking them as well.

"You might need that hood later," I say shakily, pointing to the overcast sky.

"I'd rather have a wet head then an empty stomach," Janine replies, picking at a fast and skilled pace. By the time Janine's hood is filled with berries, the bush is devoid of them. I look at her anxiously.

"Can we eat these?" I ask.

"Of course," she says, popping one into her mouth. She closes her eyes for a minute, swallows, then opens her eyes again. "They're checkerberries."

"I've never heard of them," I say, eating one cautiously. They're very…_tangy_. Different from anything I've ever eaten before.

Janine picks a leaf off the bush and before I can ask, she puts it in her mouth and eats that as well.

"Why did you just eat a leaf?" I ask incredulously.

She laughs. "Because they're edible. Here," she says, tugging a leaf off the bush and handing it to me.

I close my eyes and put it in my mouth. Very minty.

Janine stands up and empties her makeshift bag until it's about two-thirds full, then ties it into a knot. She goes behind me—I flinch horribly—and unzips the backpack, putting the bag of berries inside.

"Janine, you shouldn't," I say. "What if we get separated? You won't have any food."

"That won't be a problem as long as we stick together," says Janine, smiling.

It hits me then—Janine trusts me. She trusts me so _completely_.

I don't deserve her trust. Not after Beetee.

"Janine," I say, taking off the backpack and holding it out to her, "_you _take it."

She laughs once. "You're the one who managed to get it from the Cornucopia! It's _yours_."

"Janine, you shouldn't trust me so much," I say.

Janine cocks her head. "What do you mean?"

I'm still holding the backpack out to her; she pushes it back towards me. "You shouldn't trust me so much," I repeat. "Just…you just shouldn't."

Janine lets out a bewildered laugh. "How can I _not _trust you, Wiress?" she asks. "You saved my life!"

I shove the backpack towards her.

"I've…I've done horrible things, Janine. Horrible, unspeakable things. If… if you knew any of them, you'd run away from me as fast as you possibly can, as you should."

"Everyone's done a couple of things they regret," Janine points out, shoving the backpack towards me; I shove it right back towards her. "You're being melodramatic."

"No, I'm not," I say almost angrily. Janine pushes the backpack towards me again; it's as if we're playing tug-of-war with it, with each of us trying to get the _other _to win. "You don't understand. You _couldn't _understand."

"Are you calling me stupid?" demands Janine.

I shove the backpack towards her for the third time. "No, I'm not. You haven't been through anything _close _to what I've been through."

"Yes, I have!" she says furiously. "My sister was _killed_, for crying out loud! I'm next! You aren't the only person that's ever known suffering."

"I don't deserve it!" I yell.

"No one deserves to suffer!" Janine yells back. "No one except for the bastards that killed my sister!"

My voice breaks. "Not that," I whisper. I drop the backpack. "I don't deserve your trust."

"Why not?" asks Janine, speaking quieter.

"I told you," I say, "I've done horrible things. I've…"

"What?" Janine asks gently. "What did you do?"

"He trusted me," I whisper, my eyes downcast; I'm not really speaking to Janine anymore.

"Who trusted you?" asks Janine. She takes a step forward and puts her hands on my shoulders, shaking me once. "_Who_, Wiress?"

"Beetee," I say quietly.

Janine's chocolate brown eyes cloud over with confusion. "Isn't he one of your mentors?"

"More," I whisper; I don't know if it reluctance or inability keeping me from raising my voice.

"More _what_?" Janine demands, shaking me again. "Tell me!"

I find my voice, look Janine in the eyes, and say, "Janine, Beetee wasn't just my mentor. I'm in love with him."

Janine looks at me incredulously. "_What?_"

"I'm in love with my mentor," I repeat.

"Isn't he like, ten years older than you?" Janine says, still shocked.

"Eight years, actually," I correct.

"Does he know?" she asks. She still looks shocked, but something like pity crosses her face as well.

"Of course he does," I say. "He…he loves me, too."

"How do you know that?" asks Janine.

"He told me," I say.

"Wiress, that's…that's…"

"That's not all," I finish for her. I might as well tell her all of it. "I had sex with him."

"_What?_"

"Twice," I add as an afterthought.

"Wiress, you do realize that's illegal?" Janine says, dropping her hands. I sigh and look into her eyes.

"I know," I say softly. "That's why they killed him."

Janine puts her hand over her mouth. "They…they _killed _him?"

"Yes," I say almost wearily. For some reason, I can't bring myself to tell her how, so I tell it as if I don't know.

"They killed him because it's illegal to have sex with a child, which, apparently, is what I am. And here I am," I say stepping away from Janine and speaking to the sky, "in the middle of an arena where twenty-three people are out to kill me! I thought children were supposed to be _protected—_how the hell does forcing us to kill each other do us any good? Tell me _that_, O High and Mighty President!"

Janine comes up behind me and puts her hand over my mouth. "Wiress, be quiet! You shouldn't be saying that!"

I pull away from her. "Does it matter?" I ask. "You of all people should understand what I'm talking about! You said it yourself—your sister Elli is _dead _because of the Capitol! How old was she, Janine? Twelve! She was a child and she was stabbed to death! How can you _not _understand? How can you go along worshiping them when Elli's in the _ground _because of them?"

"Wiress, we can't do anything. We're from Districts Three and Eleven; do you realize what that means? It means we're _bait_. We're only here for the Capitol's entertainment! They're going to _kill _us!"

"Not if we don't let them," I tell her. "What do the Careers have that we don't?"

"A chance at winning!" says Janine.

"Why don't we have a chance?" I ask. "What makes us any different from them?"

This seems to stump her. "Well…they've trained for the Games…they're stronger, faster… and, well…"

"They may have brute strength," I say, "but we're smarter than they are."

"Do you really think that's enough?" she asks.

I nod grimly. "It'll have to be."

* * *

Janine makes me take the backpack. I decide not to argue with her this time.

We continue weaving our way through the…I guess you could call it a _jungle_, though it isn't hot. It's very cool here, and the air is a little wet. I've never experienced anything like it.

I look at the sky to see if it will tell us when night will fall, if night _does _fall here; despite its many differences, I keep forgetting that this isn't a natural setting, but a manmade arena.

I shiver once, but not from the cold air. _What do the Gamemakers have up their sleeves?_

The sky is almost white, but unlike earlier today, it's tinged with pink; I hope that means the sun is setting soon. The sooner today is over, the better.

_Don't think like that_, the cold voice in my head croons threateningly; I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry out again. _You do realize most of the tributes are going to attack at _night_, right, Wiress? And if you think it's cold now, wait until the sun goes down. How will you stay warm? _

I stop short. "Janine, we have a problem."

Janine turns to face me. "What?"

"What happens when the sun goes down?" I say. I hate listening to that hateful voice, but it's right. _I'm _right, because the voice is _me_.

_You're losing it, Wiress_, I think to myself.

"What do you mean?" asks Janine.

"It'll get colder when the sun goes down," I tell her. "How will we stay warm?"

"We…we don't know that for sure," says Janine shakily; I can tell she didn't consider the likely possibility until now. "We should cross the bridge when we come to it."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I ask.

"We have matches," says Janine. "We can build a fire.'

"Is _that _a good idea?" I ask again. "What happens if someone sees the smoke?"

Janine goes over to a tree and feels one of the huge leaves; it's maybe four feet long, two feet wide. Her eyes light up.

"We can build some kind of roof with these to keep the smoke in," she says.

"Is that safe?"

"Safer than waiting for the Careers to kill us," she replies. She starts collecting the leaves, as do I.

When we have about twenty, we go over to the bushes and arrange the leaves on top; it's nothing special, but it ought to keep the smoke from rising up where we are.

A false trail. I can't help but smile. _We're two steps ahead. _

I turn around and notice Janine's absence; as soon as I _do _notice it, she's back with a pile of small sticks she must have pulled off of trees.

With my hands I make a little circle under our makeshift fireplace, making it about three inches deep, and Janine puts her pile of sticks in the middle. I pull the matches out of the backpack and give them to Janine. She takes one out of the box, lights it, and drops it on the sticks. We back away a little.

_Voila_. Instant fire.

I sit down and hold my hands out to it; they warm up instantly, and I rub them together gratefully. Janine sits next to me and does the same.

"Better than nothing," she says.

A light goes off in my head. I reach into the backpack and pull out the bread and the water.

I hand the bread to Janine. She cuts it in half with her knife and hands half to me.

I take the thermos, open it, and fill up the lid. I hand the lid to Janine, who drinks it slowly, savoring the taste. I fill the lid again and drink it, then put the lid back on and put the thermos back in the bag. I'd love to drink more, but we really should save it.

Janine starts eating her bread, closing her eyes. I do the same; it tastes very earthy.

I look at Janine and notice tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" I ask, regretting it instantly. What's _right_ about this situation?

"Nothing," says Janine, wiping the back of her hand impatiently under her eyes. "It just…kind of tastes like home. It makes me kind of sad, thinking I'll never see…my family again."

I sigh, hugging my knees to my chest. "It makes me sad, too. But…if it makes you feel any better…when the time comes when we have to split up if I see you again…I won't…I won't kill you."

"Really?" Janine says with a hiccup.

"Really," I reiterate.

"I won't kill you either," she says with a watery smile. I smile back a little sadly, but I feel angry.

There's no hope for our friendship to last, which is a shame, since I already like this girl so much. I feel angry at the Capitol; they gave me a wonderful friend, but with the knowledge that they'll snatch her away at any given time.

Janine and I look up at the sky as the Capitol anthem begins. Then the roll call of death begins.

The first face is a shock—the girl from District 1, Jess.

_She _was _a bit of an airhead_, I reason.

The next face is the boy from District 5; this means that the rest of the Careers, plus Marcelle, are all alive. Then the girl from District 5. I feel a pang in my chest.

The boy from District 7. Dextra's district partner—I wonder dryly if she killed him. The girl from District 10, the one who told the Head Gamemaker about my alleged attempt to kill Brozen. Janine's district partner; she bites her lower lip to keep from crying. Both from 12. The anthem, then silence.

After a few minutes, Janine stands up. "I'll take the first watch."

I stand up as well. "Are you sure? I can take it…"

"You look tired," Janine says in a sisterly voice. Tears jump to my eyes at the thought of my own sister. "Believe me, I'll wake you up when it's your turn," says Janine.

I nod gratefully. "Thank you."

I sit back down and lay next to the dying fire, curling up to conserve as much body heat as possible. Janine walks from our little camp to the nearest tree about twenty feet away, then back again, pacing in a perfect line. Eventually, against all odds, my eyes close.

* * *

Voices.

I can hear voices. And footsteps. Fast, light footsteps, at least two pairs, maybe three.

I sit up in fear and turn to Janine. Her eyes widen. I turn to look at what she's looking at.

A hooded figure, not very tall but very lean, carries a long, thin object.

A spear.

He throws it at Janine. It impales her throat and she's dead before she hits the ground.

Her cannon fires.

"No!" I yell.

It's no use. I stand up, grabbing my bow, but someone knocks me to the ground. He puts his foot on my chest and shakes his head, maybe to get hair out of his face to clear his vision. He holds a bow with an arrow pointed at my face. His hood falls back and lightning flashes.

No. No way.

"Marcelle," I whisper.


	15. Chapter XV

_How ironic, _I can't help but think. _I threatened his life and now he's about to take mine. If I weren't about to die I'd laugh._

Another part of my brain runs on overdrive, thinking _What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?_

The only possibility that will save my life is begging Marcelle not to kill me. Offer him something, anything, some kind of deal…an alliance? I could do that. Supplies? Take what I have; it's not much.

But then I think, _No. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I begged, and he killed me anyway. If I'm going to die, Marcelle's going to live with the guilt. In fact, if I die, I _want _Marcelle to win. That way he'll _have _to live with the knowledge that he murdered me for the rest of his miserable life._

I look Marcelle in the eyes, no longer shaking; I didn't realize I was. "Do it," I say. "Do it now, Marcelle."

I want to close my eyes so that I don't see it coming, but I also want Marcelle to see the light leave my eyes when I'm dead.

"Come on, Marcelle, do it already," says a voice behind Marcelle and a little to his left; Hollen, I assume. His voice is low and urgent. "We have to go. Just...just do it already."

I hear footsteps walk around Marcelle and me and then a sick noise; it must be Seymour pulling his spear out of Janine's throat. I wonder dimly why the hovercraft hasn't come to retrieve her body, but I realize it must be waiting for the four of us to clear out.

Seymour lowers into a half-crouch, his spear held aloft. "If you don't kill her, I will," he says dangerously, aiming his spear at my head. I can't help but gulp at the thought.

A rasping growl rips out of my district partner's clenched teeth; it breaks me out of my confident reverie. I can't believe a twelve-year-old could make such a dangerous, threatening sound.

So quickly I don't believe it's real, Marcelle takes a lightning fast step away from me, aiming his arrow at Seymour, his ally. Before either Seymour or I can react, he shoots. It lodges into Seymour's skull; his blonde hair turns scarlet and he hits the ground with a sickening _thud_.

I sit up in surprise at the same time Seymour's cannon fires. Marcelle whips around, landing on one knee, and loads his bow, aiming another arrow at Hollen.

"No, don't! Please, Marcelle, don't!" Hollen screams.

It hurts to hear Hollen's plea, the sickening beg that will be his last words. Marcelle hesitates slightly, but he shoots again. The arrow flies into Hollen's throat, and just like Seymour, Hollen hits the ground with a horrible _thud_, echoing in all its finality.

Hollen's cannon fires.

I don't want to believe it, but it's true. Marcelle just killed two of his three allies.

Marcelle holds a hand out to me; blindly I take it, still in shock.

After he helps me up, I go over to Janine's body. Her eyes are still open wide; I can see the terror lingering in her chocolate brown irises. I kneel beside her; I can feel Marcelle behind me, but I close Janine's eyes anyway.

"Goodbye," I whisper.

I take her knife because I know she'd want me to have it; I have to wrench it from her hand because her final grip on her lifeline, her weapon, is so tight.

Then reality hits. Marcelle.

I calmly walk until I'm behind him; then, as quickly as he killed his allies, I grab him from behind, pulling his head back by his hair. I press the blade of Janine's knife into his throat.

I can feel Marcelle's body trembling.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now," I hiss in his ear.

"I just saved your life!" Marcelle cries out indignantly, but I yank his head back further and press the knife deeper against his throat.

"Give me another reason," I growl.

Marcelle's shaking gets worse. "I…I don't know…" he stammers.

"Exactly. I should kill you."

Marcelle suddenly stops shaking. Just as I had, he says, "Do it. Let's see if you can be a big girl for once and stand on your own two feet. I thought you could sink no lower, yet here you are, about to kill your _own district partner _in cold blood."

Anger turns my vision bright red; I can taste metal in my mouth. I drop Marcelle out of instinct—he falls to his knees in surprise—and scream, "Of course I can't sink any lower!"

Marcelle stands up and glares at me, but he doesn't get his bow. I continue, all of my control seared away by Marcelle's thoughtless words.

"I killed my _own mother_! I killed _the man I love, _the man that trusted me with his life! I promised I'd never hurt him, and I let him be dragged away from me! Do you know what happened to him, Marcelle? They tortured him for _four fucking hours _while I was about three rooms away! I had to hear him screaming, pleading for his life, and they killed him! _They fucking killed him because of me! _Of course I can't sink any lower! _Of course I can't! _I hate you, do you know that? _I hate you for what you did to Beetee! _I hate what you've done to me! I hate what you've made me! And I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

I start for him, the knife in my hand; Marcelle starts backing away and trips over his feet, landing on his back. I stand over him just as he did with me when he yells, "Please, listen to me for just a minute!"

"Why should I?" I scream, out of control. I don't care if anyone hears us, I don't care about anything, not anymore.

"Because I didn't tell Rochellita, that's why!"

I stop short, shock replacing my anger.

"What?" I ask, shaking.

Marcelle stands up, dusting the dirt off himself. "I didn't tell Rochellita. That's what I was trying to tell you."

"But Rochellita said—"

"Rochellita _lied_," Marcelle says.

"Why didn't you?" I say, my mind running a million miles a minute.

My first instinct is not to believe him. From what I know about him, it's very likely that he's lying. But Marcelle's eyes plead with me to hear him out, so I shove the instinct away. I can always kill him later if I still don't believe him.

That voice that sounds like Raphela _tsk_s in reproach. I ignore it.

"Because…well, it was in his eyes," says Marcelle awkwardly.

I don't have to ask who he means.

"What was in his eyes?" I whisper.

"Wiress, the only reason I would have told Rochellita was if I thought he was hurting you. That's the _only _reason. I know what you think of me; you think I'm a real jackass that only cares about himself, and don't get defensive, because you _know _it's true. I wanted to tell Rochellita, I'll admit that, I really did, because honestly, I can't—couldn't—_stand _Beetee. I'll be honest—I hate—hated him! But you don't—didn't—don't. I can just tell that you don't. You've crazy in love, and even if you never told me, or if I'd never…"

His face turns bright red at the memory and he continues awkwardly, "…you know, _found out_, I'd probably end up putting two and two together. But I think he loves—loved—you too. Like I said, it was in his eyes. And I thought, 'I know I hate this guy, but damn, he's in love with a Hunger Games tribute for crying out loud! Isn't that enough pain? Why send him to prison?'So I decided to just leave it alone, like you said. I didn't tell Rochellita, I swear."

"But…why would she say that you did when you didn't?" I ask suspiciously.

Marcelle shrugs. "Maybe she was trying to turn us against each other. District partner versus district partner? Hell, even I'd watch that."

As much as I hate to admit, this makes sense. Except for one thing…

"You were going to kill me!" I say. "Explain that!"

"That?" To my surprise, Marcelle laughs. "I wasn't going to kill you."

"What?"

"I was never going to kill you. I wasn't a part of Dextra's alliance. I was _acting_."

"What?!"

"Do you have a hearing problem or something? I said I was acting."

"Why? And how?" I ask quickly, eager for his explanation.

"Why? Like you said, we're district partners. We have to stick together, right? Plus I never liked them anyway. It sounds petty, but they weren't exactly _friendly_, per se. Probably because I was the youngest. They treated me as if they knew I'd get killed in the bloodbath, which pissed me off. If there's one thing I hate, it's being underestimated. It's a good thing I'm pretty good at controlling my temper or I would've kicked their collective asses."

"Good at controlling your temper?" I ask indignantly. "Explain the fight with Beetee if you're so good at controlling your temper!"

"That? Simple: if someone hits me, I hit them back. That's how I've lived my life. Sorry if you got upset because I kicked his ass." Marcelle smirks, but the look on my face wipes it away.

"How did you convince Dextra, Hollen, and Seymour you were on their side?" I ask.

"Let's just say after twelve and a half years, I've become a master of manipulation," Marcelle says vaguely.

I walk over to where I was lying earlier and grab my backpack. Then I turn to Marcelle.

"There are a million reasons I shouldn't believe you," I say slowly. "In fact," I say, getting my bow and my arrows, "I should kill you right now."

I walk over to him and get Janine's knife from where it lay in front of his feet. He flinches, but I continue, "But I think we should be allies. At least temporarily."

Believe me when I say I hate to say it, because I _really _hate to say it, but without an ally, I won't last much longer. It'd be good for me to have Marcelle on my side, even after…

I don't think he did it.

This shocks me because I don't realize it until I think it for the first time.

I believe him. _Why? _

I know he might be lying. But something, something tells me he's not. Just like Marcelle said with Beetee, it's in his eyes. Something in his eyes tells me to trust him.

_Stick with him_, says the Violette-voice. _Trust him. At least for now_.

It's strange. I hear Violette, my mentor, and Raphela, my sister, but the one voice I long for stays evasive, which, ironically, fits his personality perfectly.

Marcelle looks at me. "You trust me?"

I sigh. "I may end up regretting it, but I do."

Marcelle grins. "You won't, believe me."

I reach into the backpack and pull out Janine's hood filled with the checkerberries she picked. I choke back a sob—_Janine_. She was like my sister, and now, she's dead, dead, dead.

"Eat some of those," I say.

Marcelle looks at me suspiciously. "Are they poisonous?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because Janine told me, and she was from District Eleven, and they specialize in agriculture, so I figure she knew what was poisonous and what wasn't, any more questions?"

"No," says Marcelle slowly, eating a handful of checkerberries. He swallows. "Tangy."

I smile just a little, but it fades quickly. "We have two options: go further inland, or go back to the shore and swim to another island."

"Further inland," Marcelle says immediately. "We'll get hypothermia swimming in that water in the middle of the night. Plus, that's what she'd expect."

"She?"

"Dextra," says Marcelle. He looks around, mouthing words, then points to his left. "This way."

I nod and follow him. "Why wasn't Dextra with you guys?"

"Dextra liked to call herself our 'leader,'" says Marcelle, his voice heavy with disdain. "She wanted to stay behind at 'base,' which, oddly enough, is the next island. She'll be expecting Hollen, Seymour, and me to go back, and when she realizes they're dead and I'm teamed up with you, she'll start looking for us. She already wants to kill you; that's why she suggested we come here."

His casual report his like ice water poured into my veins. "Dextra wants to kill me?"

"Yeah." Marcelle throws me a critical glance. "I thought you knew."

"I mean, I know her strategy, but she wants to kill _me_, specifically?"

"Yes. Let's just say she certainly has a redhead's temper. She doesn't take _no _for an answer, and after your training score—despite me telling her you were no threat—she immediately changed her strategy to get you first. Janine was an accident; we figured you'd be working alone. Seymour actually thought she was you, which was a lucky mistake."

_Not really_, I think, but I don't voice the thought out loud.

* * *

After a while I look at Marcelle and ask, "I have one last question. Why have you been so hell-bent on protecting me when all I did was treat you like crap?"

Marcelle sighs wearily. "Can we set up camp, and I can tell you tomorrow?"

"We might not be _alive _tomorrow," I point out.

"I can't tell you tonight, I'm exhausted. It's a long story."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you just saying that?"

"No."

Something about his tone makes me drop it. We've been walking for maybe an hour; we must be near the opposite side of the island. I stop, pointing to an area where the trees are in an almost perfect circle of six. "Let's camp there."

Marcelle nods. "Sounds like a plan."

We go over to the clump of trees and Marcelle immediately starts grabbing sticks for a fire. "I'm freezing," he explains.

"What if someone sees the smoke?" I ask.

Marcelle snorts. "The Careers made a fire too. They're actually two islands away; on the way here I saw the boy from District One on the beach, and I assumed he was with the rest of the Careers."

"Most likely," I say distastefully. I hand the box of matches to Marcelle. He takes one and lights it.

Marcelle holds his hands against the fire, just as Janine and I did…maybe two hours ago.

She was alive two hours ago. I hug my knees against my chest.

Marcelle looks at me. "Do you want me to take the first watch?" he asks.

I nod.

"'Kay," he says. He takes his bow and his arrows and, just as Janine did only two hours previously, he starts pacing the perimeter of our campsite, his bow loaded.

I lie down, slightly apprehensive. Who's to say Marcelle doesn't change his mind and kill me in my sleep?

What if that's his plan? What if he's lying?

_Don't be so paranoid_, I think to myself.

_It's not paranoia, Wiress. It's called intuition_, says that icy voice. I shiver. _You can't trust him! He'll kill you as soon as your back is turned!_

_No_, I think, _stop it. Leave me alone!_

_You'll do the same, won't you? _the voice continues. _You said you wouldn't hurt Janine and look what happened to her. You may trust Marcelle—foolishly—but why should he trust you?_

"No," I whimper, hugging my knees against my chest again. "Stop it."

Marcelle whips around. "What?"

I prop myself up on my elbow. "Nothing."

* * *

I wake up alone.

I sit up abruptly, looking around.

"Marcelle?" I call out.

No answer.

I look for my backpack, afraid he took it, and my suspicion is confirmed. Marcelle stole my supplies.

"Damn!" I yell. My voice echoes strangely. I stand up, then look down in some surprise.

My uniform is gone. I'm wearing a dress, a white dress that brushes my bare feet. It's very lacy from the waist down, and the very short sleeves match the skirt. I run my fingers over the material, thoroughly perplexed.

Am I dead? Did Marcelle kill me? I turn around; something soft brushes my bare back.

I quickly rationalize that the dress is backless, but that doesn't explain what touched me. I turn around again, and the strange brushing sensation occurs again. My hand gropes my back, and I feel it.

My hair. It's long again.

How is that possible?

Then I hear something. A voice. A child's voice, echoing, sickeningly sweet and dripping with malice.

"Come play," it whispers. "Come play with me, Wiress…"

"Marcelle?" I call again, my voice shaking. "Is that you?"

"No," it croons. "Come play with me…"

I whip around for the third time; a path weaves its way through the jungle and I run down it, branches snagging at my arms.

"Where are you?" I yell. "_Who _are you?"

"I'm hiding," the voice whispers again. "Come play with me…come find me, Wiress…"

Where are you?" I yell again, running frantically, holding the skirt of my dress up as I continue to run. "I can't find you unless you tell me where you are!"

"Come play with me…"

Soon I reach another clearing, much larger than the one I left. It's maybe fifty feet in diameter, a perfect circle surrounded by trees. I stand at the gap, the trail behind me, and look around; the child must be here, right?

"Come play with me, Wiress…I want to play with you…won't you come play with me…?"

I'm right; the voice _is _closer.

"Hello?" I call. "Where are you?"

I take a few steps forward, turning around slowly at the same time. I don't recognize this place; it doesn't even look like the arena anymore.

"Come play with me…come play with me…won't you play with me, Wiress?"

The voice turns into many voices, speaking at different times, but they all talk as if they're alone. My head starts hurting.

"Stop it!" I moan, falling to my knees and putting my hands over my ears. A lock of hair falls over my face and brushes my nose. I tuck it behind my ear, losing my balance and nearly falling over.

My ears start ringing as the horrible crooning voices continue.

"Come play with me…come play with me…I'm hiding; won't you come find me? Won't you come and play with me, Wiress…?"

Suddenly, everything stops. The sensation is similar to that of being on a train that stops suddenly; I almost lurch forward.

"Wiress."

This voice is different; it echoes like the other ones, but it isn't the voice of a child and it doesn't send chills down my spine. I look up.

Beetee Jarvis looks down at me.

He takes a few steps forward so that he's in the middle of the clearing. Unlike me, he's wearing all black, which, along with his dark hair, makes him seem too pale.

I stand up, staring into his intense eyes for almost a full sixty seconds.

"Beetee," I whisper.

"Wiress, there's something you need to know," he says, his voice low and urgent, like Hollen's before he realized Marcelle was going to kill him.

I take a few steps forward. "What?"

To my surprise, Beetee turns around and starts walking away.

"No!" I shout. "Don't go!"

I run after him; the clearing dissolves and so does he. I'm in the middle of town square, back home in District 3. I look around.

"Beetee?" I call, looking around for him.

Everything becomes dark except for a single circle of light, a spotlight focused on me. I turn around slowly. "Beetee?"

I hear a rush of wind. Someone comes up behind me and puts their hands on my shoulders.

"I can feel you breathing, Wiress," whispers another familiar voice, the cold one from inside my head. It's on the _outside_, hissing in my ear. "It won't be long now…"

* * *

"_No!_" I scream.

I sit up sharply, breathing heavily, cold sweat drenching the back of my neck.

A dream. Just a dream.

Marcelle turned at the sound of my scream and is now aiming his loaded weapon at an unseen assailant. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I whisper breathlessly.

Marcelle comes over to me, kneeling. "That wasn't nothing."

"I had a bad dream," I say. "That's all."

"You kept saying his name," Marcelle says quietly, looking me in the eyes for once. "Beetee's."

I put my hand over my heart; to my relief, I'm wearing the tribute uniform again. "What time is it?" I ask, trying to control my breathing.

Breathing. _I can feel you breathing, Wiress...it won't be long now..._


	16. Chapter XVI

Marcelle reasons that it's maybe three o'clock in the morning. I suggest we head to another island.

"Already?" Marcelle asks.

"Yes," I say. "I just…I have a bad feeling about being here."

"What, do you have ESP or something?"

I shoot him a look.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

I don't respond and grab my backpack, hitching it on my back. I start toward the shore.

Marcelle starts walking at my side. "So, you really wanna know why I'm so hell-bent on protecting you, to use your words?"

I forgot I asked.

"Yes," I say.

Marcelle sighs. "It's not a pretty story."

"No one's is," I say, echoing Beetee's wise words from way back when.

Marcelle sighs again, turns around slowly, and sees a tree stump. He goes over and sits on it. I put my hands on my hips.

"We have to keep moving."

"Here's my proposition," he says. "I'll tell you, but I'll tell you while sitting here. Deal?"

I groan. "Marcelle, this isn't funny."

"It's not supposed to be."

I sigh and sit in front of Marcelle. "Fine."

Marcelle closes his eyes. "Like I said, it's a long story, and it's not pretty."

"Mine isn't either," I point out.

Marcelle sighs one more time. Then he says, quite abruptly, "Did you know that I have a brother?"

I stare at him. "No. I didn't know you until a few days ago."

"Well, I do. A twin."

"What does this have to do—?"

"Just listen," says Marcelle.

I hug my knees against my chest. "Okay."

"I have a twin brother named Mitchell. Yeah, I know, what kind of mother gives twins names that start with the same letter? That's so clichéd. But at least our names don't rhyme."

"Marcelle, you're getting off topic."

"Sorry. Okay, so I have a brother, but he's not…um…_normal_, per se."

I cock my head. "What do you mean by that?"

Marcelle's voice takes on a quiet, almost remorseful quality I've never heard from him before. "Mitchell's not like you or even like me. When he was born…a few minutes after I was…you know that cord that babies have on them?"

"Umbilical cord."

"Yeah. It was wrapped around his throat."

I put my hand over my mouth. "Around his _throat_?" I ask in a whisper.

"Twice," says Marcelle.

Strangely, I'm reminded of my conversation with Janine a few hours before…I can't even think it without blaming myself.

I said I wouldn't let her get hurt.

"He didn't get enough air," Marcelle explains. "So he's a little…um…I guess you could use the word _retarded_, though I'd prefer you didn't."

"Marcelle, I'm—"

"Don't. If you value my sanity, you _will not _say that you're sorry."

He stands up and starts pacing. He stops and turns to me.

"I hate when people pity him! When people pity me! It makes me crazy!"

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Don't be," Marcelle says automatically, putting his hand over his face. "It's just… well, you're kind of like him."

I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

"I don't mean that you're retarded," he quickly amends, "I mean that you seem so vulnerable."

"Vulnerable?"

Marcelle sighs again. "Yeah. Vulnerable. Obviously, I was wrong, but…Wiress, you're really pretty."

"Thank you, I think?"

"I mean that you're pretty, and you're vulnerable, and you're…well, at least I thought you were…"

He mumbles something so low I can't hear it.

"I'm what?"

"Desperate?" Marcelle says apologetically.

"Desperate?" I repeat in shock.

"At least I thought you were," says Marcelle. "And…well, you know this. I thought he…Beetee…I thought he was using you. And it pissed me off because I knew that you really loved him."

"How did you know that?"

"It was in your eyes."

"When?"

"The first time I saw you look at him," says Marcelle quietly.

"Oh," I say, a blush heating my face. "It was that obvious, huh?"

"Yeah. No offense."

"None taken."

"Anyway…I was thinking, why just sit and feel sorry for myself? I protected Mitchell; couldn't I do the same for you? So…I did."

"How did you protect him? Mitchell?"

"You know that room in the back of the library at school?"

"Yes."

Raphela and I used to call that room _The Forbidden Room_. There wasn't much there; only books that we weren't supposed to read. I used to steal down there all the time with Raphela; that's where I read the _Flowers in the Attic _books. There were tons of old books down there, and when I say old, I mean _old_. Some of them dated back to the 1900s!

After Raphela _graduated_, for lack of a better term, I stopped. I was too scared on my own.

"Well," says Marcelle, yanking me out of my memories, "I found some books on martial arts."

"Really?"

"Really. You wouldn't believe how many there were. Seriously, it's as if they _wanted _me to take them! Which is exactly what I did."

"How old were you?"

"Maybe seven. I can't remember."

"What if you were to have gotten caught?"

Marcelle shrugs. "I dunno. I suppose I would've gotten punished? But the point is, I found a couple of kids willing to let me practice on them."

Something tells me Marcelle coincidentally forgot to tell those kids what they were signing up for.

"After a while, I got pretty good at it. I wasn't training for the Games, if that's what you're thinking. I was trying to protect Mitchell, make sure no one messed with him. This week I did the same with you."

"Oh." I had no idea how to respond to that.

"Anyway," says Marcelle, standing up, "you were right. We should get going."

Marcelle leads the way to the beach.

"Marcelle?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," I say. "You didn't have to do that."

Marcelle turns to me with that almost remorseful gleam in his eyes. "Yes, I did."

* * *

It seems impossible, but somehow, Marcelle and I swim until we're three islands over, two islands away from the Careers.

Marcelle wants to stay on the beach, but I want to go further inland. "The fewer people that know where we are, the better," I explain.

"Let's go just behind the trees," Marcelle suggests. "No one will see us, but we can still be where we can make a quick getaway."

I nod, impressed. "Good idea."

Marcelle starts scratching at his hands. I look at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Scratching," he mutters.

I take him by the wrist and roll up his sleeve. His arm is bright red.

"What _happened_?"

"I don't know," he says, scratching his arm; I grab his other arm to stop him.

"Did you lie in poison ivy or something?"

"I don't think so," he growls, trying to yank his hands free.

"Maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Remember those berries I gave you?"

"Yes," Marcelle says, still struggling.

"Maybe… well, maybe Janine was wrong."

"Are _you _itching?"

"No. Maybe…"

"Start finishing your sentences! Maybe_what?_"

"Maybe you're allergic to them?"

The idea seems almost unlikely, but hey, anything can happen here.

"Damn!" Marcelle yells. He pulls his hands free and starts scratching his arms again. "Stupid—freaking—berries—"

"Stop," I say, trying to restrain him. "It'll get worse."

"What's the point?" he growls.

"Well…" I don't know what to say.

"I could really use some skin cream or something right now," says Marcelle. He pauses. I look at him.

"I _said_, I could really use some skin cream or something right now," Marcelle repeats.

Nothing happens. Marcelle looks at the sky and yells, "Hel-_lo_? Hey, sponsors? You listening? I _said_, I could use some freaking skin cream or something! Hello?"

"I don't think they are," I tell him. "We're District Three; who'd sponsor us?"

"I don't know about me, but I thought a helluva lot of people who sponsor you."

"Me? Why me?"

"_Hello? _You're Miss I-Got-A-Ten-In-Training! You aren't a Career, but you beat almost all of the Careers!"

"Well, if everyone's just _dying _to sponsor me, where are the little parachutes?"

I hear a little _whoosh _sound; Marcelle and I look up simultaneously and, just as I said, a silver parachute floated down from the sky and landed in my hands, which I hold out reflexively. I look at it in awe and Marcelle crosses his arms.

"Told you so," he says.

I open the little box attached and pull out a little tube.

"Marcelle? I think this is for you," I say, tossing it to him.

Marcelle catches it—though I don't see how; my aim is horrible— and I pull out the other item: another half loaf of bread.

Marcelle's eyes meet mine. "I told you. People _want _to sponsor you. You…you're special."

"Special?"

"Yeah. You're different. You're something new, something no one's ever seen before. One of a kind. I think…I think that there's never gonna be anyone like you again, tribute or otherwise."

"Really?"

"Really," says Marcelle, uncapping his—I guess you could call it _ointment_, for lack of a better term—and rolling up his sleeves. He starts massaging it into his skin, sighing contentedly.

He uses so much his skin still looks creamy afterword; it leaves an eerie, permanent glow on his already pale complexion.

"Marcelle...that looks…well, really weird."

Marcelle grins. "Really?"

"Yes. You…you look like a vampire."

Marcelle looks at his arms and scoffs. "Wiress, vampires don't sparkle."

He laughs, and I laugh too. I can't keep the pang out of my chest; if I'm to survive, _what's going to happen to Marcelle?_

Marcelle notices the look on my face. "What's wrong?" he asks, taking off the hooded shirt and rubbing the ointment on his shoulders.

I shake my head. "Nothing."

_Marcelle, when you die, I'll remember you. I promise. I'll remember your face, your laugh, your smile. I promise that I won't let anyone forget you, the boy who risked his life to save mine._

I impatiently wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. _Be strong_, whispers that voice that sounds kind of like Violette. _Be strong for Marcelle_.

* * *

By the time Marcelle and I find a new campsite, rays of pink, orange, and gold are stretching their way across the midnight black sky. I stop to look at the sunrise; even though I know it's not real, it's beautiful.

Marcelle tugs my arm. "C'mon," he says.

Then he notices that I'm crying.

"What's wrong?" he asks, alarmed.

I close my eyes and shake my head. "How many more sunrises am I going to get to see? One, two, three more? I want to watch it."

"It's not—"

"I know it's not real," I snap. I shouldn't have expected him to understand. "I just want to watch it, that's all."

"I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," I sigh. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm just a little…"

"High-strung?"

"I suppose."

I wipe my hand under my eyes again. "You're right. It's stupid," I say.

"I like the sunrise too," says Marcelle quietly, unexpectedly.

I sigh. "You can sleep," I say, loading my bow. "I'll keep watch. At around noon we'll pack up and go somewhere else."

"Thanks," Marcelle says gratefully. He lies down and closes his eyes; he's out in minutes.

I feel guilty as I watch him sleep. What's going to happen to him?

This alliance can't last. We both know that. But…there's no way I can kill Marcelle, despite the threat I made before the Games began. I still can't believe that twenty-four hours ago, I was in the Capitol, but safe. I take out the rest of the food we have and spread it out neatly on a patch of dry leaves. The berries Janine collected and the half loaf of bread that the sponsors gave me…us. I still don't believe that anyone would sponsor _me_, after what I've done.

I take out Janine's knife and slice the bread in half evenly. I split the berries into two piles, then cut off my own hood with the knife; I fill it with half the berries and half of the bread, then make two holes on either side to tie it with a strong-looking piece of grass. I lay it next to Marcelle; this way, when we have to split up, he has a little bit of a fighting chance.

I start pacing with the bow in my hands. It's maybe four thirty, now; I'll wake up Marcelle in another two and half hours. Then we can start discussing strategy.

I already know what he's going to propose; we kill Dextra. The plan _does _make sense; unless she was more of a double-crosser than I thought, she only had three allies, one of whom proved to be a traitor and two of whom were killed. After we kill Dextra…assuming we manage to kill her…what next? Rather, _who _next? The words make me sick to my stomach, but if I'm to get out of here alive, I have to put my revulsion aside.

_My goal isn't to come home alive. It's to come home as Wiress MacDanielle—as myself—whether dead or alive. I'm not going to let the Hunger Games change me._

I'm a liar. I clench my teeth, thoroughly disgusted. I'm a liar. I _am _letting the Hunger Games change me—I'm contemplating who to kill! Truthfully, am I any better than Dextra? Then the Careers?

Tears burn my eyes but I blink them away. _You don't have time to cry_, says Violette…or the voice that sounds like her, anyway.

I sigh. She's right. It's right… I mean, _I'm _right.

As I continue pacing, I decide our next target should be the remaining non-Career tributes: the ones from District 9, the girl from 7, and Seymour's district partner.

After that…maybe I'll lead Marcelle into some kind of trap with the Careers.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep from crying. I don't want to kill Marcelle. I don't even want him to die. But he has to. They all have to…

"Why do you look so sad, Wiress?"

I jump at the sound of Marcelle's voice. "You're supposed to be sleeping," I say lamely.

He shrugs. "Can't sleep."

"Oh." I pause. "Maybe we should…"

"Discuss strategy? I was thinking the same—"

"Don't do that," I say anxiously.

"What, discuss strategy?" asks Marcelle, confused.

"No…don't finish my sentences. Just…please, just don't."

"Why not?" Marcelle asks.

"Because that's…please, just _don't_."

"Fine," says Marcelle shortly. Then his eyes soften. "Sorry. I'm just…stubborn."

"I've noticed," I say, the words bursting out of my lips before I can stop them.

To my surprise, Marcelle just laughs. "You're right."

I sit next to him. Marcelle notices the bag next to him. "What's this?" he asks.

"In case we get separated," I say. "I… guess I kind of care about you. You're like a brother, almost."

He smiles sincerely. "Thanks."

Marcelle closes his eyes. "I don't have to ask who we're going after, do I?"

"Dextra," I say.

He nods. "Let's just hope she doesn't see it coming."

"After that, maybe we can take out the other non-Career tributes," I say. "The girl from Seven, both from Nine, and the girl from Six."

"Kolleen," says Marcelle.

I look at him. "How do you know her name?"

"She's Seymour's district partner," he says. "Dextra actually wanted her to work with us, but she said she was going solo."

"Do you think Dextra's going to be focused on her?" I ask, a little hopefully; if Dextra isn't trying to find us, finding and killing her will be easier.

"No," Marcelle murmurs thoughtfully. "She's probably wondering where we are."

"After…" I swallow over the lump in my throat. "After the other non-Careers are…taken out…maybe we should go after the Careers."

"We're done after we take out the other non-Careers," says Marcelle. "I'm sorry; I can't kill you. You can do what you want after that, but…after that, I honestly hope…I hope I'll never see you again."

My heart sinks to my stomach. "I thought you cared."

"I do," he says so quietly I can hardly hear him. "I…I want to remember you like this. Alive. Smiling —well, at least a little. I don't want to see anyone kill you, nor will I kill you myself."

"Me neither," I say solemnly. "Should…should we find Kolleen, try to get her to work with us?"

"I don't think so," says Marcelle. "One ally seems enough to me. Plus…I'm pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate the fact that I killed Seymour."

This is said with a touch of humor, though I find nothing funny about it. I don't think he does either.


	17. Chapter XVII

Marcelle and I decide to find Kolleen. We compromise—we'll ask her to join us, but if she refuses, we'll kill her.

Our bargain makes me sick to my stomach, but at this point, we have no other choice.

How are we going to find her?" asks Marcelle.

I shrug. "If I were dead—"

"Could you please rephrase the question?" Marcelle interrupts quickly, closing his eyes.

"If you were on your own for some reason," I amend, "where would _you _go?"

"Easy," says Marcelle, opening his eyes. "As far away from the Careers as humanly possible."

"And where are the Careers?" I press.

"A few islands over," he says. "Assuming they haven't left."

"Please. The Careers have maybe half a brain cell. _Combined_. They're so cocky they probably believe no one would think to attack them," I say scornfully, Brozen's furious face sharp in my mind.

Marcelle's face splits into a grin. I sigh softly, guilt creeping from the darkest corners of my brain. He'll have to die; at the moment, I don't know how, but I honestly don't care to ponder it now.

I give my backpack to Marcelle. "You carry it," I say.

Marcelle shakes his head, reminding me of Janine. "It's yours," he says. "You got it."

This time, I decide not to argue. Marcelle puts his—truthfully—small bag of food into my bag. I seal it and we abandon our small camp, not even bothering to clean up.

"This way, people will be tricked into thinking someone's here," Marcelle says.

I nod silently, holding my breath. Marcelle and I run into the water until it's deep enough to swim in; Marcelle points out where we'll begin our search for Kolleen, and I dive.

We reach the designated island quicker than I expected us to and soon we're roaming through the jungle, trying not to make a sound; Kolleen might be armed, and it'd be hideously ironic if she killed us before we could offer her a spot in our alliance.

Suddenly, I see a flash of blonde. I whip around, and then I hear a voice:

"Get back! Stay away from me!"

I take a few quick steps forward, holding my bow tighter, and then I see a girl. It's obvious that she's Kolleen; she looks a lot like Seymour. Same blonde hair—though hers is long and drapes down to her waist—and same gray eyes, widened with fear.

"I just want to talk to you," I say, but Marcelle suddenly grabs my arm and yanks me to his side, behind a thick-trunked tree. He slaps his hand over my mouth; his grip is so hard it hurts.

I try to break free, wanting to ask what's wrong, when I discover Kolleen wasn't talking to me.

"It'll be easier if you don't fight me, honey," Brozen whispers huskily. I squeeze my eyes shut. _He's going to kill her_.

"No! Get away from me, _get away_!" screams Kolleen.

I hear her gasp, and then the ripping sound of a knife tearing at fabric. It hits me what Brozen's going to do to her before he kills her just as Marcelle lets out a low breath, and I realize it's not a breath, but a whisper:

"Run," he breathes.

He releases me. I don't have to be told twice; with Kolleen's horrible screaming and pleading ringing in my ears, I run back toward the shore. Adrenaline makes me faster and I'm there in minutes.

I can still hear Kolleen screaming, but no footsteps behind me.

Should I wait for Marcelle? No, he said to run. He'll catch up… so long as Brozen doesn't see him and kill him first.

Is that what Marcelle did? Did he just sacrifice himself for me?

I hope this isn't true. My life is much less important than Marcelle's…though, in order for me to win, I'll have to make sure he dies eventually. I don't want to have to kill him, but if it's necessary…for Beetee…could I?

The thought makes bile rise in the back of my throat. When push comes to shove, even after everything he's done for me…yes, I could kill Marcelle.

I try not to think of it as I plow through the water, heading back to our old campsite, not even bothering to try going somewhere else. Is it smart? No, but I have to make sure Marcelle finds me.

I hit the ground running as soon as I reach the shore. I hide behind the trees and kneel next to our fireplace, pulling the matches from my bag and clumsily lighting one. I hold my hands out to my tiny fire, then hug my knees to my chest, trying to ignore the increasing hole in my chest as I wait for Marcelle to return…

Then I hear two cannons fire in quick succession.

I stand up abruptly, scouring the perimeter for Marcelle. _Could one of those be his?_

I quickly decide that Brozen finished with Kolleen and killed her, and that one was her cannon, and then…maybe someone else died?

_It couldn't have been Marcelle_, I think desperately. _It couldn't have been._

Even though she's dead (because Marcelle simply cannot be) I can still hear Kolleen's frantic shrieking in my head. I still can't believe what Brozen even dared to do to her…how could that have even been on his mind?

I lie down, my bow held tightly in my hands, and decide maybe I'll try to sleep a little until Marcelle returns…

* * *

A clock chimes.

My eyes flutter open; I slowly stand up and take in my surroundings. Then confusion sets in.

I'm back in the clearing where Janine was killed.

A lock of hair dangles in front of my face; I tuck it behind my ears, realizing that it's long again.

I look down almost instinctively; that long, pure white dress adorns me once more.

"Impossible," I whisper.

"Wiress," a soft voice whispers; chills run up and down my arms at its sinisterly saccharine quality. "Come and play with me…"

My better judgment screams _No! Don't do it! Run as far away as possible! _but for some reason I ignore it; I take off running down the path again.

"Come play," it whispers. "I'm hiding; won't you come find me, Wiress...?"

"What do you want with me?" I scream desperately, still running, but the voice doesn't answer me. It continues crooning my name, leading me down that hateful path that can hold nothing good, but that entices me anyway.

I trip and fall to my knees; simultaneously, the voice gets louder, and just like last time, it multiplies. I curl up in the fetal position, my hands over my ears, trying to get them to stop, to leave them alone, when just as quickly, they stop.

Something brushes the underside of my wrist. I don't have to open my eyes to know who it is.

I do anyway, though, and I sit up and throw my arms around Beetee's neck so that he can't leave me again.

"Wiress…" he murmurs, but I don't let go of him.

He tangles his fingers in my hair and for a few minutes we stay like that, not even breathing lest we ruin the moment.

After a second or a minute or maybe even an hour, Beetee pulls away, but not enough so that he's out of my arms. He kisses me softly, and afterword I whisper, "Please don't leave me again."

"I don't have a choice," he says just as quietly.

He stands up; by the time I'm on my feet everything is gone.

The light blinds my eyes. I sink to my knees again.

"No!" I scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth.

Something ice cold and feather light brushes my shoulders, traces down my arms, brushes my hips. I whip around, startled, but my assailant only holds me tighter.

"So close," whispers that voice…that cold, cold voice…

"What are you talking about?" I scream; this time my voice echoes through the air.

"It'll happen soon…"

"Whatever you're talking about isn't going to happen!" I yell desperately.

The voice has substance and holds me tighter in its icy grip. "It's too late to lie to yourself," it croons. "It's already happening…"

"What's already happening?" I yell.

No response. I feel a rush of ice cold air…

* * *

I sit up, my hand over my heart, panting.

Tears sting my eyes and stream down my cheeks. It wasn't real.

At least in the dream, Beetee's alive.

Marcelle puts his hands on my shoulders. Relief courses through me; he's alive. "Wiress, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I gasp. "Are you?"

"Yeah," he says weakly. "He…he saw me, but he couldn't catch me."

"How long was I asleep?"

The Capitol anthem is my answer. Marcelle sits next to me and we look at the sky. I hug my knees defensively.

Seymour is first. Kolleen's serene face lights up the night sky next. I shudder, remembering her screams…

Then I see the boy from District 9, followed by his solemn-faced district partner. I don't even know their names…I suppose one of them were the second victim…of the Careers or otherwise, I don't know. Then Hollen, then Janine; I choke back more tears and Marcelle unexpectedly takes my hand.

The anthem plays again. Then silence, just like last night.

I look at Marcelle and notice his bow and arrows are gone.

"What happened to your bow?" I ask.

"Dropped it," he mutters sheepishly. "Sorry."

"It's okay," I say. I stand up and load my own weapon. "I'll keep watch first. You sleep."

Marcelle nods sleepily and lies down after relighting the fire.

"Is that a good idea?" I ask.

"I'm cold," he says defensively. I decide not to push him.

* * *

For maybe three hours I walk a perfect circle around Marcelle and the fire, my mind a blank slate. Then my eyelids start drooping.

I think about waking Marcelle, but then I decide against it. _You've slept more than he has_, I think.

But I _am _tired. And both of us sleeping isn't an option. I lean against a tree as a compromise. Just for a minute.

Then I sit next to the tree, still heavily leaning against it. _Don't you dare fall asleep! _I think frantically, but I close my eyes. Maybe a very, very quick nap would be okay…

* * *

My eyes open. _Dammit, I fell asleep! _I think instantly, but it's drowned out by Beetee's screaming in my head again. Oh…I wish it'd leave me alone…

I cover my ears, but then the screaming gets quieter. I uncover them slowly, and I rationalize that this screaming isn't Beetee's. It's real.

Then I notice this _light_, this blindingly bright orange light that flickers and flashes in front of my eyes. The horrible screaming continues. It takes me only a half a second to put it together.

The light is fire.

The screaming is Marcelle.

Marcelle's on fire.

I leap to my feet. _"__Marcelle!"_ I scream.

I don't think he can hear me. What do I do, _what do I do?_

I have to help him, but how, _how, how_?

_Water. Put the fire out!_ I scream silently, but I know it's no use. There's no way I could get enough water to put the fire that engulfs my district partner…the pain would kill him, anyway. There's only one humane option.

I load my bow and point an arrow at Marcelle.

_Kill him. End it. End it now! _the voice that sounds like Violette shrieks frantically. Marcelle falls to his knees, still screaming.

Another screaming fills my ears. Beetee's.

He died kind of like this. No one ended his pain.

I close my eyes. _Should I? What do I do, what do I do?_

My bow slips out of my hands. I turn around and run away.

I keep running until his screams are so faint I can hardly hear them. I hide behind a tree, panting.

In the distance, I hear a very, very soft noise; a sickening kind of _sssssss_.

Marcelle must have jumped into the water.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Marcelle's cannon fires.

The sound echoes through the quiet night. I put my hand over my mouth and tears start streaming down my cheeks.

_What have I done?_


	18. Chapter XVIII

My whole body starts to shake. My teeth are chattering.

_No, no, no, _I think desperately. _Not Marcelle, not him! Why him?_

_It's your fault,_ that frosty voice croons. _You could've saved him. All you had to do was wake him up... then it would've been _your _charred body the hovercraft had retrieved from the water. He probably drowned...I bet that water wasn't even up to his knee._

"Get out of my head!" I yell. I don't care if anyone hears me; I want this voice to leave me alone!

_You're just like me,_ whispers the voice, _and do you want to know why?_

"I'm nothing like you, whoever you are!"

_Who am I?_ the voice asks._ Don't you know, silly girl? I'm a monster. I'm a killer._

_I'm you._

"No," I moan, clutching the sides of my head, "you're not me…you're nothing like me…I'm nothing like you…"

_I'm evil, _it whispers. _I'm you. Your dark side. Your evil side. Your better side._

"You aren't me!"

_You call yourself humane and kind,_ the voice suddenly snarls, losing its pretend sweetness, _but would a kind person have let that boy burn like a match?_

_Would a kind person have run away while that poor girl was raped by Brozen?_

_Would a kind person have let her lover be tortured for her crimes?_

_Would a kind person have tricked a young woman into helping her, only for the woman to be brutally murdered right under her nose?_

_Would a kind person have allowed her own mother to be executed before her very eyes?_

_Face it, Wiress,_ the voice continues, the saccharine tone back, _you're becoming more and more like me with every breath you take._

"No!"

_What do you want, Wiress?_ the voice asks suddenly. _What do you want more than anything?_

I'm crying now; I sink to my knees, wrapping my arms around myself…almost as if I'm trying to hold myself together, trying to keep myself from falling apart…

"I w-want t-to g-g-go _h-h-home_," I stammer, my trembling getting worse.

I can help you, the voice whispers. All you have to do is everything I say. If you do, you'll be home in no time.

"I'd never listen to you," I whisper, trying to draw on the very last reserves of courage in my thin body.

_But you don't have a choice,_ it croons. _When the time comes, you'll do exactly as I say._

_And you will learn to like it._

"No!" I scream. I grab my bag and start running, as if I can outrun the cold voice in my head.

_Run, run, run,_ it whispers softly. _It doesn't matter where you go, Wiress. You can't escape me. There's no escape for monsters like you. Like me._

I fall to my knees. Finally, finally, the voice slips away, leaving me cold and wet and panting, my face slick with tears.

Then I realize I left my bow. On shaky legs I stand up, turning around slowly to head back to the shore, to me and Marcelle's campsite (Marcelle, who's dead because of me), but I quickly discover I have no idea how to get back.

Just as I try to decide which way to go, I hear footsteps. Three or four pairs of footsteps, one pair much louder than the others.

Then I hear a voice, low and husky and threatening. "It's about time we met again," whispers Brozen.

I freeze. I'm completely unarmed.

It's over.

Brozen tackles me to the ground. I gasp and struggle to escape his hold, but he's almost twice my mass and keeps me pinned with no effort. Then he pulls out a knife; the silver of the seven-inch serrated blade shines through the layer of congealed blood. Kolleen's blood.

I keep kicking him, fighting just trying to get free, but Brozen holds me ineffectually. I look into his eyes, expecting to find anger, and maybe an animal-like survival instinct, and I do, but I find something else as well: desire.

I've seen desire only once before, but not in eyes so light blue and cold. Those eyes were much, much darker.

He'll rape me like he did Kolleen, and when he gets what he wants he'll kill me.

Just like he did Kolleen.

"Brozen," I whisper desperately; I don't know why I don't scream. "Brozen, you…you don't have to…"

I hope he knows what I mean. I think he does, because a maniacal grin creeps onto his sweat-covered face.

"You'll pay for making me a fool," he whispers. He takes that bloody knife and holds it to my collarbone. My breath speeds up with fear.

Using the knife, Brozen tears my shirt cleanly in half. He pulls the two halves away from my chest, then takes the knife and does the same with my undershirt.

Shock and terror freezes me completely. My blood doesn't flow. All I can do is close my eyes, trying not to feel, but my sense of feeling becomes much more intense as Brozen touches my breasts. His fingers are icy cold, yet they burn my skin. I seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

Something like the fire that destroyed Marcelle sears through me as Brozen picks up his knife with his left hand…but he held it in his opposite hand earlier…at least, that's what I thought…

_Now's your chance._

I wrestle the knife from his grip. He releases it in shock, immediately trying to pull it out of my hand, but before he can do anything more than yelp, I thrust it into his forehead.

Brozen can't even scream. He drops to the ground, but I run up to him and kneel next to him, sinking the knife into his throat.

I stab him again. And again. And again. And again. And again. I don't even hear the cannon fire, but it reverberates through my bones, and after I've stabbed him maybe twenty or thirty times, I back away.

My bare torso is covered with Brozen's blood, thick and hot and wet. My fingers tremble uncontrollably; I drop the knife that killed Brozen, his own weapon that he planned to kill me with, and I shakily try to pull the halves of my shredded shirt closed to cover my chest.

I walk over to where Brozen must have came from and I find something familiar: Marcelle's bow and arrows.

Marcelle dropped them. Brozen must have stolen them.

I pick up the bow and put the sheath on my shoulder. After trying once more to fix my shredded top—it's really no use—I start walking through the woods, too numb to run.

_I told you,_ the voice croons. _You didn't just kill that boy. You _destroyed_ him._

"He…he would've done the same thing to me…"

_But he didn't because he's dead,_ the voice whispers, almost gloating. _And you killed him. Bravo, Wiress. Bravo indeed._

"Stop," I whisper, but then I stop as if I've turned to stone.

More footsteps.

"Brozen?" whispers a thick, burly male voice that I recognize as Ari's of District 2. I clench Marcelle's bow tighter in my hand.

Then a girl's voice. Must be Mae, or maybe the girl from District 4? "Brozen? Brozen, did…did you do it?"

No, it's Mae. I load my bow as the two figures enter my line of vision. Quicker than I ever thought I could move, I shoot it at Mae; it impales her throat and she drops to her knees, ripping out the arrow and therefore shortening the brief remainder of her life by half. Ari yells an incoherent mix of swear words, but before he's finished or has even turned to run, I load my bow again and shoot it again. It lodges itself into his right eye, and he falls on top of his district partner.

_Did I really just kill three people in quick succession?_ I think in disgust.

Two more cannons are my answer. I sink to my knees.

_I told you so,_ the voice whispers again. _I told you so, Wiress. Did that feel good? I bet it did. You liked killing those people, didn't you? I bet you did. I bet you enjoyed it._

"I didn't," I whisper defensively, hugging my knees. "I…I didn't like it. I was j-just trying to keep him f-from…"

_That was an excuse and you know it. You didn't have to kill Ari and Mae too. You chose to._

"But…you're angry at me…you said, if I l-listened to y-you y-you'd help me get h-home…"

_I'm not angry. I'm proud of you. _

"I hate you!" I scream, leaping to my feet. With Marcelle's bow held too tightly in my hand, I start running again, but this time the voice continues to taunt me.

_You don't hate me. You envy me. You wish you could be as strong as I am._

_And you can be. All you have to do is everything I say._

I trip and fall to the ground, getting face full of mud. I spit it out in disgust, standing up on trembling legs. I'm covered in sweat and mud and blood. And the blood isn't even mine…

I decide to head back toward the shore, mostly for the reason of wanting to wash the blood and mud off of myself.

First, though, I take out my little bag of food and tear the rest of the bread in half. I eat it slowly, trying to make it last longer, but I end up eating the other half as well.

I eat a few berries to try to satisfy the growling in my stomach, but it's not enough. I eat the bread I saved for Marcelle also.

I slap my hand against my throat. Thirsty. Suddenly I'm so thirsty; just a minute ago I was fine, but after eating the stale bread, my throat is suddenly dry as bone.

Water. Must get water.

I search through the backpack for the thermos of water, but when I pull it out, the lid is off.

Damn, damn, damn. I didn't screw the lid on tight enough. Thanks to my stupid mistake, I now have no more water.

I try eating a few of the berries Janine picked to get some kind of liquid into me, but it's really no use. The berries now have an off-flavor; I throw them into the woods, revolted. No matter how hungry I get, I will not eat rotten food.

I hope I can keep this promise. I couldn't keep the last few that I've made.

* * *

Despite my lack of energy, I head back toward the shore, contemplating whether or not I should drink the water surrounding the arena.

On one hand, it's water. It'll soothe the itching dryness in my throat and mouth.

But I remember what happened when I inadvertently drank some of it right after the bloodbath. I threw it up; it wasn't compatible with my system, probably due to the salt content. If I throw up after I drink the water, I'll lose the food I just ate, and considering how suddenly scarce food has become, that's definitely a bad idea.

A few years ago, I learned that the average person can only live up to a week without water. In my weakened state, three days is probably all I'll last, and there's no way I'll be able to get rid of the other four tributes in three days, especially if I'm dehydrated.

However, one can live without food for much longer. It won't be easy, but who said this would be easy?

Water or food? Water or food? Water or food?

I wish I had Marcelle. He'd probably know what I should do.

I reflexively put my hands over my ears, cringing, waiting for that voice to comment. Thankfully, it doesn't, so I continue walking.

There has to be more of those bushes in the arena, doesn't there?

Not necessarily, I think, relieved that the voice in my head is my own voice, unvaried. The Gamemakers can do whatever they want. They could've gotten rid of them.

The ground softens. I look down; the shore. I stare out toward the water, watching it sparkle under the moon. It's so beautiful…if only it were real…

I close my eyes with a sigh. If push comes to shove, I'll drink the water. But until then…I'll make do.

I take off my backpack. All that's in there are the matches. I take them out, opening the box, then take off one my shoes, emptying the matches into my shoe. I put my shoe back on, then throw my backpack into the jungle.

I take a few experimental steps. It's not comfortable, but it works. The matches won't fall out at any rate.

I hold my breath and start running toward the water, even though it makes my legs and lungs burn. The water feels as if it's colder.

I squeeze my eyes shut; I can hardly breathe, but I keep swimming, just keep swimming, trying to reach another island.

My feet scrape the bottom. I open my eyes; it takes all of my strength to drag myself out of the water and into the jungle. I put my bow on my shoulder like the strap of a backpack, continuing the wander aimlessly through the woods. I make a mental list of who is left: District 4, the girl from District 7, and Dextra.

Who poses more of a threat? The remaining Careers, of course, followed by Dextra, followed by the girl from 7. Who should I go after first?

A cannon fires. I whip around, but I don't see a hovercraft. Irritation sets in; could the Gamemakers at least say who died? It'd make it a little easier.

_Who said it would be easy?_ that voice asks sweetly.

A horrible reality crashes over me like a wave of ice cold water. I must be insane. The likelihood is truly terrifying.

Another possibility hits me, much slower and more gently, though—maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe…maybe when the Capitol injected me with the tracking chip…maybe they put this voice in my head. Like with a microchip.

_That fits!_ I decide. _There's at least _one_ person of reasonable intelligence in the Capitol; they could easily make a voice that sounds uncannily like my own, record it onto some sort of microchip, and implant it inside me._

Relief courses through me and I exhale. I'm not losing my mind. The Capitol only wants to make it seem so, to make it easier for the other tributes to kill me. It's like a placebo: they're trying to make me_ think_ I'm going crazy so that I actually _go_ crazy.

I look up at the inky sky and cup my hands around my mouth. "You can't take me down that easily!" I yell, then regret it instantly. I have to stay on my toes; the remaining three tributes could be anywhere.

Anywhere…maybe even on this very same island…

_Calm down,_ I tell myself, concentrating on my breathing to steady myself. _Don't think like that. But…stay alert._

I notice when the sky begins to lighten, and the golden and magenta rays that shoot across the pitch-black sky are a knife in my heart.

I remember the sunrise just yesterday…when Marcelle stood by my side. The two of us, united by the Capitol's cruelty and barbarism, and by our refusal to hate each other when we should be enemies.

But I had to go and ruin it all…the hideous fire, the screaming…

I ran away.

I can still picture Marcelle's face in my head, smiling slightly, but with a much wiser look in his eyes.

I can also imagine his screaming, the horrible fire that annihilated him while I stood and watched.

Fire. Unlike many of the—truthfully, much wiser—citizens of District 3, fire has never really scared me. It fascinated me, piqued my interest. Maybe that's why I was so drawn to Beetee.

Most of my memories before my mother's murder are irritatingly hazy and insubstantial, but as I close my eyes, one comes to the forefront of my mind…

* * *

_I am six years old._

_I wander through my small, austere home, boredom turning my childish face into a haughty mask. Raphela and Mother are in town, and my father is asleep…he only just got in from work a few minutes ago. He's working the morning shift, which I enjoy; despite his tiredness, I get to see him in the evenings._

_My aimless meandering brings me to our tiny kitchen. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food, but I know better than to take something from the pantry. "We only get so much food, so we absolutely can't waste it," my parents tell me and my sister. _

_Nevertheless, my small hands paw through the many rickety drawers, searching for something to play with, or even something interesting to look at._

_My search brings up an object; a small box. At six I've just started school, so I can read the word printed on the cover with ease: MATCHES._

_I sit in the middle of the kitchen and pull out a match, striking it against the edge of the box. It lights._

_I stare at the small orange flame in fascination and wonder; I've learned that a child like me has little power in this world, and the ability to make such an important part of our lives—fire, which cooks our meals and warms us in the winter—is fantastic, to say the very least._

_I gasp with wonder and my match goes out. I drop it in disdain and pull out another one, lighting it as well. The flame is truly gorgeous, orange and red and yellow, dancing before my amused and awed eyes._

_I hear a door open; the sound shocks me and I drop my match. It doesn't go out and the fire starts spreading._

_I scream. _

_My father runs into the room. "Wiress, what's wrong?" he asks, and then he sees the source of my terror. Hurriedly he goes over to the small fire and stamps it out; I'm lucky he forgot to take off his shoes, which is unlike him. An insignificant part of my mind realizes he must have had a hard day work to be so uncharacteristically forgetful, but I still shake with fear at what almost happened._

_Father's eyes flit from my small, shaking form to the box of matches at my feet, and he puts two and two together._

_"Wiress, what are you doing?" he says angrily. I don't answer him._

_Father takes my hand and lightly slaps my knuckles; a small cry escapes my throat and I back away._

_He regrets it; I can see it in his eyes. My father gets on his knees and holds out his arms. "Wiress, come here," he says in a much kinder voice._

_I run into his arms. My father holds me and runs his fingers through my wild tumble of dark brown curls. "Wiress, you know better than to play with matches," he murmurs as I bite my lip, trying not to cry, because honestly, six years old is too old to cry just because you did something wrong._

_"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry."_

_"I shouldn't have yelled at you. But…Wiress, there's a lot you don't understand," he says quietly. "You know we don't have a lot… if you were to have burned our house down, we wouldn't have a place to live; it's that simple. What's worse, what if you had gotten hurt, or even killed? Wiress, I couldn't live if you or your sister were killed."_

_The dam breaks and I start sobbing, chastising myself silently, but my father doesn't hold it against me. He rocks me gently, murmuring my name and combing my hair with his fingers._

* * *

I'm crying in the present too, but this time I have no father to hold me, to softly croon my name and rock me in his arms. Suddenly, I ache for it, for someone to hold me, to tell me everything will be alright, even if it's not true.

I wrap my arms around my knees, shaking with sobs. I have to take care of myself. There's no way around it.

I rest my cheek against my bony knee, but suddenly, something cuts through my reverie; a trumpet.

"Attention!" calls the voice of Claudius Templesmith; part of my mind wonders how he manages to get his voice to every inch of the arena, but most of me is alert, listening to his words, though I already know what they mean. I leap to my feet, holding Marcelle's bow tighter in my hands.

"Before I continue with a very good piece of news," he says, "I'd like to congratulate you four lovely ladies for making it this far!"

Ladies…that must mean the death I heard earlier was the boy from District 4.

"As a reward for your determination and bravery," Templesmith continues, "we are holding a feast this evening; I'll make another announcement briefly beforehand to remind you. Remember, attendance is not mandatory, but if it were me," he says with a slight chuckle, "I'd definitely go.

"Good luck, and—"

"May the odds be ever in your favor," I whisper with him.


	19. Chapter XIX

_No_, I think at first. _Absolutely not! You can't go to a feast; you know full well that those _always _end in bloodbaths._

I try to find comfort in this piece of logic, but I can't; I'm completely out of food and fresh water, and—now that I think of it—I could use more arrows.

_And another shirt_, I add self-consciously.

_But_, I reason, _they're might not even _be _anything at the feast! It's probably just a trick! And the girl from District 4 and Dextra are _already _out to get you; why come out of hiding? It's better to find food in the jungle and _stay put_._

_But I don't have Janine_, I contradict myself helplessly. _How do I know what's poisonous and what's not? And there aren't any animals in the jungle…_

_As far as you know_, that voice in my head adds sneakily.

I shiver; at this point in the Games, who knows what the Gamemakers have in store? What kind of muttations lurk in those trees that tower above my head?

I wrap my arms around myself. _Stay calm. Do _not _panic. _

I sit back down, hugging my knees to my chest. "I could really use some help right now," I murmur aloud.

I've never felt so alone. I'd give anything in the whole world to have my father, my mother, Raphela, Beetee, Violette, Marcelle…hell, even Rochellita would be better than no one. The only thing I have now is my sanity, and—though I'd love to cling to the fantasy that the voice in my head is the Capitol's doing—that's slipping away like sand through my fingers.

_Sort what you know from what you don't and go from there_, I tell myself. I exhale shakily.

There's going to be a feast. I know that.

I also know that most feasts end in bloodbaths.

Dextra and the girl from District 4 are out to kill me. That I'm pretty sure of.

Who else is left?

_The girl from District 7_, I decide. Is she out to get me as well?

_Probably_, I tell myself. _I'm the weakest link_.

What would Violette do in this situation? I know—she'd go to that feast and kick some ass. But I'm not Violette. I'm not strong enough to do that. I need a real plan.

What would Beetee do?

This actually takes some thinking. I close my eyes, trying to put myself in Beetee Jarvis's shoes. If he were in this situation, would he stay in the jungle or go to the feast? What _did _he do?

He built that electric trap around the Cornucopia. He knew he might get attacked there, but he did it anyway because he didn't think he had anything left to lose. Neither do I. So should I go?

I'm nowhere near as clever as Beetee was. I couldn't replicate what he did even if I _knew _what he did. But would he go to the feast?

_Yes_, I decide. _He would_.

So my last act in these Games will be to trust his instincts.

I rise and peel off my shirt and undershirt. I take my knife and cut them into long strips, and I tie those strips around my breasts and stomach, my two most vulnerable areas. It fits like a flexible body armor of a sort, but while this solves my shirt problem, it leaves my entire torso freezing cold. Coupled with the fact that I'm soaking wet, I'm a human icicle.

I wrap my arms around myself and try to keep my teeth from shattering. I don't remember it being this cold the other three…four…how many days have I been in this arena? I can't remember that either, but I know it wasn't this cold. This is obviously Gamemaker intervention—the odds are only one in four for a Career victory, so maybe they want these Games over with as soon as possible.

I'm exhausted. I haven't slept well since…since that last night with Beetee, when Beetee was alive, when Marcelle was alive…

I shake my head, shutting those two out for the time being. I can't fall asleep like this; I'll be completely vulnerable to an attack and to hypothermia. It would be hideously ironic if I died from natural causes instead of murder.

_No_, I think. _I can't afford to think that way._

Something lands in front of my feet. A little parachute.

That means a gift from a sponsor.

With numb fingers, I pull away the parachute, uncovering a thin black sleeping bag. No food, no water. Violette's intention couldn't be clearer: get some rest, then go to the feast.

"Thank you, Violette," I whisper. I'm not so alone after all.

I decide to make my camp somewhere else. I put my knife and my matches in the parachute, tying it to my hip with some sturdy-looking weeds growing by the trees. I hitch Marcelle's bow and sheath of arrows onto my shoulder, drape my sleeping bag over my other shoulder, and reluctantly go back into the jungle, acutely aware of the eerie silence.

I jump. I could've sworn I heard a whisper.

_You're being paranoid_, I tell myself.

I find a cluster of trees surrounding a small, child-sized clearing. The whole area is surrounded by bushes with bright red berries. They look like the ones Janine picked, but in spite of my hunger, I don't risk it. Instead I lay down my sleeping bag and step back about ten feet.

I'll be practically invisible. Just like the old Wiress always was.

_What a little liar you were, trying to convince everyone you wouldn't change. _Everyone _changes in the arena_, that voice croons. I do my best to shut it out, crawling into my sleeping bag. I've just curled into a ball when I hear it. A faint humming.

I prop myself on my elbow, alert. A small mound of dirt about twenty feet away is making the sound. _Probably just a camera_, I tell myself uncertainly. Something about that buzzing seems almost alive…

_Quit that_, I think. _Sleep. You need some rest_.

* * *

I'm awakened by the sound of trumpets. I untangle myself form my sleeping bag; the air has warmed considerably in the few hours I've been asleep, but it still can't be more than sixty degrees.

The loud, upbeat voice of Claudius Templesmith reminds the four remaining tributes of the feast, which, according to him, begins in ten minutes. I untie the parachute and leave the matches with my sleeping bag, taking only Marcelle's bow, the arrows, and Brozen's knife with me to the Cornucopia. Something tells me the Games will be over very soon.

I collect some of the berries and eat them, hoping that they are indeed Janine's berries. Hunger has got the best of me, and if I'm to kill Dextra and the two other girls, I'll need my strength.

When I've eaten my fill I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand; the juice from the berries hasn't helped my thirst as much as my hunger, but I do my best to ignore it, heading for the beach.

That's when I hear a branch snap.

I whip around, loading my bow. At first I see nothing, but then I look up. The tall, lanky girl from District 7 is revealed, her hazel eyes narrowed, an ax in her hand.

She leaps out of her tree and throws her ax. I hit the dirt; the ax flies over my head, and in the instant it takes the girl to retrieve it, I've shot the in the foot with an arrow. She howls in pain but throws her ax at me again; I've ducked behind a tree, and I shoot an arrow her way. I miss.

I run as fast as I can to the next tree, but I barely make it before the girl throws her ax, but this time, something happens.

The buzzing I heard earlier gets louder; instinctively I get up and run, but my opponent runs toward the mound where her ax has landed. I stop about twenty feet away, and suddenly, all I see is a huge swarm of gold. At first, I think I'm hallucinating, but then the girl starts screaming. I put two and two together.

_Of course. Tracker jackers_, I think.

Mutant wasps. I was wondering when the Gamemakers would use them.

I can see the writhing body of the girl from District 7; the poor girl's voice is thick from being stung in her mouth and throat, but she continues to scream and twitch violent from the poison being injected into her again and again. My eyes move to her face, horribly distorted by her many stings, and I can vaguely make out the number three. Three. I am from District 3, so that is how she would refer to me. She is trying to beg me to take her life.

I remember Marcelle's gruesome death, and it's as if I can feel him watching me with those brown eyes that had seen too much. I can almost hear his voice saying, "You couldn't do it for me. Do it for her, Wiress."

I solemnly load my bow and aim it at my former enemy's head. We never were enemies, really. Just two girls wanting nothing more than to go home.

I nod in the girl's direction. I can hardly tell, but I think her swollen lips form the words _thank you_.

I shoot her in the head. Her cannon fires immediately, and I turn and run so that I don't have to watch the horrible mutts feast on her remains.

I don't stop running until I reach the beach, and when I do, I notice a change. Instead of water filling the space between each island and the Cornucopia, each island is connected to the Cornucopia by a large strip of what looks like solid rock. I reach down and touch it; it's cold and leaves a grayish-brown residue on my fingers, almost as if it's made of clay. I take a cautious step; it seems sturdy enough to hold my weight.

Suddenly, I hear a cannon. I turn sharply; about six islands away, I can see a hovercraft collect the body of a blonde girl whom I assume is from District 4. Her hair is long and blonde, and it catches in the cool breezes as the girl is pulled into the hovercraft. For some reason I'm mystified by her hair. That's what I'll remember; not her lifeless body, but her hair whispering in the breezes like long pieces of platinum seaweed.

When the District 4 girl is gone I see a thin, redheaded figure run down the path connecting that island to the Cornucopia. Dextra.

I load my bow and shoot an arrow at her, but Dextra is too fast and too far away. My stomach lurches; I have to go after her.

I run down the path to the Cornucopia, adrenaline making me faster. I try to shoot Dextra again, but she thinks quickly and ducks behind the Cornucopia. I grope the quiver of arrows at my back, my fingers searching for an arrow that isn't there.

I've run out of arrows.

Dextra pokes her head out and confirms that I have no useable weapon. She steps out, twirling a bloodstained knife in her fingers. Maybe that's what she used to kill the girl from District 4.

I hold up my bow threateningly, trying not to shake. It can't end this way. It can't. Not after Marcelle, not after Beetee…

Dextra lets out a low whistle. "I wasn't expecting you," she says. "Maybe Marcie. But not you."

"Marcelle," I correct coldly. I won't have my district partner's memory slandered by her stupid nickname. My knuckles are white because of how hard I'm clenching my bow.

"What happened to little Marcelle?" asks Dextra, cocking her head, her blue eyes bright with excitement.

"It doesn't matter," I say, trembling. "He's dead."

"He was yours from the beginning, you know," she says, narrowing her eyes. "From the very beginning. I shouldn't have trusted him; I should've known he'd do anything to protect you. I think he loved you, actually."

Dextra says this so calmly, but I start reeling.

Marcelle…my little ally, my district partner, my friend. I never factored any romance into that equation.

It explains his seemingly petty dislike of Beetee, whom he knew _I _loved. It explains Marcelle's anger at catching us in bed together; he was jealous because he loved me. _Marcelle _loved me.

It makes the circumstances of his death that much more despicable.

"What did he tell you?" I demand.

"He just said he wished you'd joined us," says Dextra with a shrug. "He watched your every move protectively, almost possessively. His eyes would get all soft and stuff." She rolls her eyes, then flashes her trademark sly grin. "I'll be damned if I haven't seen you look at his mentor in the exact same way! Oh, yes, Marcie had a lot to tell us about his sweet district partner's obsession with his mentor."

"Marcelle wouldn't have told you anything," I say weakly. _Oh, Marcelle, you said you didn't tell anyone._

"But he did. You were all over that man," she says. "A little surprising, actually."

I glare at her. Dextra glares right back. The time has come.

In a singsong whisper Dextra says, "I spy with my little eye a pretty young girl who's about to die."

She lunges, knife in hand.

I toss my empty sheath into the water and hit Dextra in the head with Marcelle's bow.

It catches her ear, which starts leaking blood. Dextra staggers, then tries to puncture my chest with her knife; I leap out of the way, holding up my bow to strike again.

Dextra stumbles my way and grabs my arm. I try to twist out of her grasp, but Dextra stabs my upper arm.

The pain is sudden and blinding. I stagger away from her, dropping my bow and gripping my wound. Blood seeps through my fingers and drips onto the sand.

I struggle to my feet and look out at the water. I can just make out about a half a dozen grayish triangles floating near the islands.

The islands. I have to make it to the islands.

I run down the nearest path; Dextra staggers after me, her balance impaired by her head injury.

When I reach the end of the path, my heart sinks to my stomach.

I can see a six-by-six inch square rippling in the air about ten feet above my head.

A force field.

They want this over with. Now.

I have no weapons; Dextra has a knife.

Tears sting my eyes. This is how I will die.

Beetee died for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

For some reason, I choose this moment to bring his face to the forefront of my mind. Those dark, dark eyes that told me what he was feeling, even when his lips refused to. The light he radiated on those rare occasions when he smiled—I loved his smile. He looked younger and happier, and when he was happy, I was happy. It was a shame he smiled so seldom.

No. He did not go through those last few hours of agony for nothing.

With great effort, I stand up. I grab Dextra's arm and wrestle the knife from her grip. She tries to claw my eyes out with her fingernails, but with all of my strength I shove her into the water.

Dextra can swim pretty well, but what she doesn't know—and what I do—is that she isn't alone.

The triangles I saw earlier were fins.

And those fins belong to sharks.

Dextra's blood runs out of her ear and drips into the water; instantly those six huge sharks—no doubt muttations, made larger and much more vicious—hurry to her, enticed by the smell of fresh blood. A huge mutt sinks its teeth into Dextra's shoulder.

She screams, but Dextra is yanked underwater. Her screams choke off and the sea becomes scarlet.

Dextra's cannon fires.

I sink to my knees, dizzy from the rusty, salty smell of her blood. The hovercraft doesn't even bother coming to collect whatever's left of Dextra; the mutts won't leave even a finger to salvage.

I hold up the knife, watching the crimson blood shine on it. My victory is announced in Claudius Templesmith's cheerful voice.

Time begins to move in slow motion. I've won. In spite of absolutely everything, I've won.

But was it worth the cost?

Janine, the girl I called my friend…Marcelle, my protective ally, who may have had an entirely different ulterior motive for wanting me alive…sly, playful Dextra, who was just like my sister…even shy, helpful Raellen, who was determined to protect me, and Beetee, dark, brooding Beetee, protective, secretive, loving Beetee, the only man who's ever loved me, and the only man I'll ever love…was my victory worth all of those horrible, horrible deaths? The spear that punctured Janine's neck? The fire that turned my district partner into a charred piece of flesh? The scarlet water that is all that remains of Dextra? Those agonizing, piercing screams of Raellen, of my lover? _Were they all worth my victory?_

Tears spill down my cheeks. No. They weren't.

I see the knife with clear eyes. I formulate my plan for revenge.

These Games will have no victor.

I press the blade into the crook of my arm and make a long gash to the heel of my hand. I'm deaf to the startled screams, the cries for someone to stop me, but I'm past the point of no return.

I make another cut on my other arm. It doesn't even hurt. Not really.

I throw the knife into the water. After an eternity—but really only a few seconds—I collapse, exhausted and leaking blood.

At least I'll be with Beetee again. The only place I truly belong.


	20. Epilogue

**Beetee's POV**

I sift through blurry, horrible memories until I break consciousness—this time for good, I hope.

I sit up. At first, the absence of pain is all I can comprehend. I see a morphling drip by my bed and put the two together, which relieves me slightly. My mind is still in working order. I think.

Confusion then sets in. Why am I in a hospital—shouldn't I be in prison?

No…shouldn't I be dead?

Raellen is dead. This I know. I was forced to listen to her agonized screams, and even worse, to the sickening cries of Wiress, no doubt locked in another room. I swore I wouldn't let them lay a hand on her—the only thing her pleas reassured me of was the fact that she was still alive and was in no physical pain.

They couldn't get any answers out of Raellen Cane. Of course they couldn't; she was an Avox. Those bastards just wanted to make Wiress hear her scream.

When Raellen died, and when I was taken from my prison cell, I told myself I wouldn't scream. I knew that every scream that escaped my lips would torment Wiress, the only one in this world I would take the pain for.

I wasn't strong enough to keep my mouth shut, though. And sweet Wiress paid the price—I could hear her begging my captors to let me go, _to take her instead._

The moment was life changing. _This is love_, I realized. _True love. No longer caring about what happens to you so long as your lover is safe._

I've only felt that way once. But I don't just love Wiress MacDanielle—I rely on her in more ways than she can ever know. She brought me back from the brinks of insanity. She gave my broken life _meaning_.

She was sweet and lovely. She was anything and everything I wanted and needed. I've known her forever, but for less than a week. I love her, that pale, delicate, beautiful girl with the deer-in-the-headlights eyes.

And now she's…she's…

_Where is Wiress? What happened to her?_

My eyes dart to the door. I can see the outline of a woman—Violette. She peers in and sees me.

Violette lets out a strange sound—a mixture of a shriek of joy and a startled noise of confusion. She runs into the room and, to my utmost contempt, throws her arms around my neck.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?!" I shout, struggling to get out of her embrace. "Get off me!"

Violette abruptly pulls away and crosses the small room, dragging a chair to my bedside. She sits down, watching my face in nothing short of amazement. After a few seconds, she speaks.

"How?" she asks simply.

"How what?" I say irritably, trying not to tremble. Violette's unexpected hug has brought some very disturbing memories to the forefront of my mind.

Violette's voice mercifully pulls me out of my reverie. "How are you _alive_?" she asks in apparent awe.

I stare at her for a full sixty seconds. I open my mouth but I can't speak. Violette waits patiently for my response.

"What are you talking about?" I finally whisper.

"I thought they killed you," says Violette in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "And…so did Wiress."

"What?" I ask, reeling.

Wiress thought I was dead.

"Where is she now?" I demand. "In a softer voice, I add, "What happened to her?"

Violette doesn't answer me.

"Violette, I need to know," I say anxiously. "What happened to Wiress? How did she die?"

My voice breaks. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry. _Please let Wiress's death have been quick and painless…please._

"Beetee," says Violette slowly, "Wiress is alive."

My heart skips a beat. "Alive?" I whisper hoarsely.

"Yes," says Violette, looking at the floor.

Alive.

Wiress is alive.

She'll be fragile if she went through half of the hell I did. Scarred for life. But she's alive. I'll do whatever I have to do to make her feel safe again.

Alive. Wiress is alive.

That was the problem with our relationship. She would soon die. But she _didn't _die; she lived, and now we can be together.

My eyes meet Violette and I immediately realize something is very wrong.

"What's wrong?" I ask. Again, she doesn't answer. My heart starts racing. "Violette, what is it you're not telling me?"

Violette sighs sadly. "Beetee, Wiress was cut very badly after she won," she says slowly. "She lost a lot of blood before she could be stabilized. But, um…well, she's comatose."

Comatose.

Wiress is alive, but she's in a coma. A _coma_. How ironic.

"Who cut her?" I ask carefully, looking at my hands, folded in my lap and wrapped in bandages. Those bandages go up my arms and wrap around my torso, covering the cuts and bruises inflicted upon me during that night of living hell.

"She, um…she cut herself," Violette says quietly.

A strangled moan escapes my throat. "When is she waking up?" I ask Violette desperately. "From her coma? When will she be alright again?"

_Jarvis, you know she'll never be alright again_, I tell myself.

Violette sighs again. Her eyes meet mine, and I shout my question at her again. This time, she answers.

"Beetee, she lost so much blood…she isn't expected to wake up."

I think my heart just stopped altogether.

My lover survived. But she's as good as dead.

"She thought I was dead, so she tried to kill herself," I rationalize. "This is _my _fault."

"No," says Violette firmly, but I cut across her.

"It is! If she knew I was alive –

"How could she have known? You've been here this whole time; there was no one to tell her!"

"Exactly! I swore to protect her! I swore I'd be there for her and I wasn't!"

"Beetee, get a hold of yourself!" Violette yells, shaking my shoulders.

"Don't touch me!"

My voice rings out in the sudden silence. Violette backs away, seeming irritated, but her eyes suddenly soften. I look away, holding my head in my hands and trying not to scream.

I recoil when Violette touches my arm. She holds out an envelope.

"Oh," she murmurs absently. She leaves and comes back with a small case, which she hands to me.

"Try these on," she says.

I open the case. Glasses. Of course.

I put them on and blink at the sudden clarity. Then I hold out my hand for the envelope, which I now see has my name written on it in Wiress's handwriting.

Violette gives it to me solemnly and I notice something else. The envelope has been opened.

"Who opened it?" I ask shakily.

Violette points to herself.

"Why?" I demand.

"Wiress wanted me to read it," she tells me. She needs to say nothing more.

I reopen the envelope and take out a small lock of dark brown hair.

This is Wiress's.

Another small moan escapes my lips. I hold her soft hair to my cheek, inhaling its sweet scent. I press my lips to it, closing my eyes. Violette takes a few steps away, giving me my space.

I put that precious piece of Wiress's hair into the envelope and take out a folded sheet of paper.

I unfold it with trembling fingers and read my young lover's letter.

_"__Dear Beetee,_

_If you're reading this letter, it means I'm dead_," Wiress wrote. "_I'm so, so sorry we never could've been together—believe me, I am. I want to be with you so much. I love you so much! But I can't have you. Life just wasn't on our side. So once again, I'm sorry. _

_There's something you should know. I can't kill anybody. I won't do it. I won't be a pawn in the Capitol's Games. I want to be me, Wiress, and nothing is ever going to change that. I'll be killed—I just hope it will be quick, for your sake as well as for mine. It's a little obvious, but you are the only man I've ever loved. To me, Beetee, you are everything. __Everything__, Beetee. I would want to die a thousand horrible deaths if you didn't love me anymore. But please don't mourn me for the rest of your life. When I die, you can cry, but then move on. Find another woman to love, because whether you know it or not, you have so much love to give. It's a beautiful gift that shouldn't be wasted. Just save a little love for me and store it in the deepest part of your heart—if you'll pardon the cliché. Don't forget me; I most certainly won't forget you, Beetee Jarvis._

_All my love,_

_Wiress MacDanielle."_

I read and reread Wiress's letter until tears run freely down my cheeks. Violette has sat back down and is watching me sympathetically. I hold my knees to my chest and cry, for myself, for Wiress, and for everything we could have and should have been.

_**Fin.**_

**The end! :) What did you guys think? **

**Oh, and by the way, I made a trailer for ****_Breathe _****and have posted it on YouTube! Simply go to my profile and click the link. You won't be disappointed! **

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	21. Teaser for Breaking Point

**The following is a teaser for the sequel of ****_Breathe_****, ****_Breaking Point._**

"I'm so sorry," Beetee murmurs shamefacedly, not looking at me. "I shouldn't have put you through that…"

He bites his lower lip, maybe to keep from crying, then puts his hands over his face. I'm not sure why, but I'm so serene at the moment that it doesn't bother me that I don't know. Instead, I hold out my hand.

Beetee puts his arms on his knees, looks at my hand, then up at my face. I smile slightly.

"Take my hand," I say softly.

His dark eyes flicker again from my outstretched hand to my eyes. Slowly, he puts his hand in mine and gets to his feet. I lace my fingers through his, leading him to the middle of the room.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.

I don't answer him. Instead, I take his other hand and put it at my waist. I wrap my free arm around his neck, still smiling vaguely. Beetee arches his eyebrows, confused, and a giggle threatens to burst through my lips, but I hold my composure and start spinning myself and Beetee in a slow circle.

Beetee closes his eyes, a small smile twitching on his mouth. "If I've said it once, I'll say it again: you're such a romantic," he mutters, opening his eyes, and even though his lips are smiling, I can still see the pain in his eyes. I take my arm back from around his neck to stroke his cheek, the two of us still revolving in slow, calculated steps around the living room. His skin is closely shaven and feels so soft under my sensitive fingertips.

Truthfully, Beetee is very clumsy. He holds me awkwardly, apologizing each time he steps on my bare feet, which is often. But it's endearing the way he tries to get those simple steps right, for my sake. He watches me tenderly, his gaze falling from my eyes to my lips.

"You don't seem angry," Beetee says after a few minutes.

"I'm not," I reply; I'm unable to keep the smile off my face.

"You're happy?" he asks.

I laugh once. "Yes. I'm actually happier than I've been… in a long time."

"How?" Beetee asks simply.

I close my eyes. "It's…well, it's a little bizarre, to say the least."

"What?" asks Beetee with a laugh.

I sigh softly, searching for words…one of the many things that I've been finding evasive lately. "Mila…well, she was right," I begin, opening my eyes a little and peering at him through my eyelashes.

Beetee's eyes darken; he looks a lot grimmer, but he tries to keep the mood light, again for my sake, most likely. "She actually said a lot more after you left," he tries, "and let's just say I hope she wasn't right."

He doesn't get it, a first. "No…not about…whatever else she said," I continue, opening my eyes completely and looking straight into his.

"About what, then?" he asks.

I take a deep breath and the words come spilling out. "Beetee, I'm pregnant."

His reaction is as expected: his arms drop to his sides, those dark eyes of his wide with shock. He rubs his forehead, taking a few shaky steps away from me and collapsing into an armchair. My hands flutter to my throat; I watch my lover anxiously, trying to gauge his reaction to this piece of unexpected news.

After a moment of stunned silence, Beetee finds his voice. _"__What?!_"


End file.
